Screams
by LankySundown
Summary: Even with the doors locked and bolted, Katniss can hear the screams. They affect Prim so much that she can barely sleep. She keeps asking about him, if he is alright, why he is so uncontrollable. One night, Katniss finally decides to take action. Set in a slight AU in which District 12 is dry after the Victors' return from the 74th Hunger Games. As the fic progresses, more spoilers
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games, but if I did I wouldn't have to be a waitress. Dang.

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AN: This is something that's been knocking around in my head after rereading the end of tHG and directly starting Catching Fire. What happened during those in-between times? Katniss definitely went to Haymitch's house... So yeah, set somewhere after THG and before CF, with some entire-series-spoilers.. I think. Enjoy!

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Screams.

Even with our doors locked and bolted we could hear the screams. They affected Prim, so much that she could barely sleep. She kept asking me about him, if he was alright, why he was so uncontrollable. It was the alcohol, the lack of it in this place. He was going through withdrawal, and without it, was – as I could tell from the nature of his screams and how they mirrored mine – quite obviously haunted by nightmares of all the horrible things his Games and the repercussions of being a Victor had done to him.

Like getting him addicted to the alcohol to begin with, for one.

After two excruciating days of this, of random periods of screams infiltrating our quiet Everdeen routine, I end up at his place. I tell myself it's because of Prim, how I want my drunken, unruly mentor to stop terrorizing her, but truth is I'm more than a little worried about the guy. I mean, when I had those nightmares, Peeta was there to hold me at night. Not anymore, no, but that's beside the point. I ruined everything with that boy by existing in survival mode too long. Anyway, I'm thinking about all this, and about how Haymitch doesn't have anybody, so when another bout of yells begins to penetrate our living room walls and Prim visibly cringes, I heave myself up off the hearth and run out the door. As the sun is getting lower on the horizon, I trek across my yard and Peeta's to my mentor's. I don't even worry about breaking and entering as he always keeps his door unlocked. The wails are ear-piercing now, and I can't use them to judge whether he's awake or asleep.

"Haymitch!" I bellow out, following his yells through the dingy, dirty house. I stomp my way to the kitchen, my feet shoving aside piles of scattered junk and broken glass and dirty laundry. He's sitting in a chair, upper half sprawled over the filthy table, the side of his face planted on the thing. The back of his head facing me, presenting a mop of clumped and matted dirty-blonde hair, so I make a wide arc around him until I'm facing him and –

Woah. In less than a second, I take in the scene before me, my mentor's face contorted into something beyond pain. In front of him the knife that he usually grips in his sleep is jabbed into the table, and he's gripping it too low, so low on the hilt that half of his palm is squeezing into the blade, extracting a thin line of blood that has smeared onto the table beneath.

I'm speechless, but I whip into action right away, knowing I have to get his hand off the knife and bandaged, get him awake and out of this… this… but I still can't tell if he's asleep or in a stupor or…

"Haymitch!" I yell into his ear, praying this works because he always gets way too defensive when I pour water on him, and he breaks off in mid-yell, grip loosening on the knife. I seize my moment and clasp two hands on the handle to pull it out of his grasp but his grip tightens just as I'm about to wiggle it out of the table, and I'd only cut him worse if I kept pulling and all these thoughts are whipping around in my head as I hear a low grumble of a moan build in his throat and I reach a hand out to his sweaty face to wipe away the sweaty mess of hair that's made its way into his face, please no not again, I think I whisper before pulling back, bracing myself as he lets out another ear-piercing –

But I run to the sink and fill the nearest pot, not caring that it's crusted with some remnants of food or more probably vomit and run it back to the table, heaving it over Haymitch as I let the pot clatter to the ground and brace all my body weight on the hilt of the knife because if I don't keep it in the table, it'll be through my head…

With a sputtering, Haymitch jerks out of his terror, and it's all I can do to hold fast to that damn knife as he yanks on it with all the might of a Tribute facing certain death and I think I'm winning until he's suddenly slashing it at me and I fall back to the floor, scooting away, shouting, "Haymitch, Haymitch! It's me, Katniss! Stop!" but he won't stop, he just keeps slashing, getting closer to me and I'm trapped, locked against the kitchen's walls and floor, and "HAYMITCH!"

And suddenly, everything is still.

He's whispering something, sadly, so low I can barely make it out, before I think I hear it –

"May, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" and he's dropped to his knees on the floor, reaching a hand out to me, knife forgotten, and his eyes, they're not here, not really…

"Haymitch," I reach out two hands and shake his shoulders as roughly as I can. "It's me, Katniss." He looks at me, clouds shifting over his eyes. "Katniss Everdeen," I insist.

And they're gone. He's back. He's back dropped to his knees on his kitchen floor, his Tribute in front of him, telling her who she is so he doesn't cut her to shreds, doesn't call her some dead girl's name. I can see the embarrassment, the regret, the sorry flash through his eyes.

"Sweetheart."

I've only been hugged by Haymitch once before this, and that time it was more like a strategic huddle than a hug. But this time when Haymitch collects me to him, bloodied hands and arms around my shoulders pulling me into his, it's real. I reach up to put a hand to his back in response, but he's pulled me back already, realizing his mistake probably, because Haymitch _doesn't_ hug, and I reroute my action to a swipe at my nose for lack of anything better to do. Two hands snap out to grab mine, though, opening up the palm.

"You have blood on your hands."

I hold back my scoff.

"Yeah, yours," I say like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Because this is how Haymitch and I are supposed to interact. This is our status quo. So I grab _his_ wrist and flip his palm up. I look at his face then, as if to say, _see_?

"You have to stop sleeping with knives," I say. He attempts to let out a chuckle as I shake my sleeve over my arm and begin to wipe at the blood. I have to steel myself to do it, to keep myself from running back home and getting Prim or my mother to come fix him, but I wouldn't want to subject Prim to this, or explain that Haymitch is not, in fact, insane, to my mother. So he clenches his jaw and tries to pull away saying, "You don't have to-"

"Who else is gonna do it?" I spit back, yanking his wounded hand back to me. We both know he'd just leave it, let himself bleed out is my bet.

It starts looking cleaner but is still spurting blood, so I get up and begin opening cabinets and he asks, "Blood make you hungry, Sweetheart?" The sarcasm and spitting intonation is back in the nickname and I almost sigh in relief. He's back, truly.

"You got any clean towels in here?" I ask, then realizing it's Haymitch and he has piles of dirty shirts in his kitchen, I add, "Or clean anything for that matter?"

"What'd you come here for, a full-out housing inspection?"

"To tell you to keep it down, actually," I correct him. And yeah, I'm bantering with him when I say it, but some measure of sincerity is there too. I watch him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction, and he shakes the hair down into his face, scrunching his lips together.

"Yeah, well, the liquor used to do that," is all he says. He fiddles with an empty glass on the table. "Not so lucky anymore."

I'm furious. This is all he has to say for himself? That he used his alcohol as this much of a crutch and now he's just going to let himself die inside like this? "What am I going to do with you, Haymitch?" I ask exasperated.

"Build me my own Victor Village?" he jeers sadly.

"You can't expect me to want that."

"Why not, I'd be out of earshot, out of mind. Plus that little chickadee of yours wouldn't be so afflicted with me gone."

"You don't need solitary confinement, Haymitch," I speak aloud as I'm thinking, thinking about how Victor Village _does_ isolate us, how being cut off from society is so dangerous to one's sanity, how, every night in the arena when I had my nightmares, Peeta was always there to hold me tight and chase the demons away. "You need people. Or at least somebody. You need their company. You know what your problem is, Haymitch? You don't have a Prim or a Peeta. Somebody to care about and somebody to care about you. You need somebody, if nothing else, to keep away the memories at night."

"I don't know what memories you're talking about, sweetheart. All I got is a bad case of the where's-the-liquor."

I look at him sharply, and he knows he can't pawn it off like that to me, not after calling me Maysilee in his earlier episode.

"'May' is not even close to my name," I remind him.

"I'm fine," he says defensively now, getting angry himself. "Why don't you just scram?"

I sit there still. "Prove you're fine and I will."

"Okay, you know what, for the rest of the night and tomorrow, I'll be quiet, okay? I can manage. I'm fine."

"And if you're not...?"

"Hell, I give you permission to break in here with a crew of Effie Trinkets to keep me some damn company."

My lips screw up in a smile as I agree, "Deal."

"Whatever," he mumbles.

I open the window and slip out into the darkness, warning him, "not so much as a moan, Haymitch."

He gives me a glare and I drop out of sight, trying to erase the Haymitch from the kitchen table that remembered Maysilee from my mind.

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AN: I have ideas for extending this, do you think it's worthwhile? Please review, good or bad, I'd love to know what you think of my crackship obsession manifesting itself :)


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up the next morning disoriented. I was awoken not by a distant scream, but a very close one... My own. Haymitch had kept his promise. We hadn't heard a sound from him that night. Tonight I was the terror of the town. I look across the room expecting to be sleeping in the same small room as Prim and my mother until I realize I'm in my new house in Victor Village and I have my own bedroom. Since I can't look across the room for confirmation, I can only hope that my yells weren't as loud as Haymitch's.

Over a quiet breakfast of oats, I try to gauge whether or not Prim and my mother had heard me. They both have on the now somewhat routine expressionless masks on though, so it's hard to tell. But maybe, I think, this means they heard me. I begin to feel a sinking feeling in my chest. If it's not Haymitch keeping them in terror, it's me. I can't let them live this way. So later in the morning I'm braiding Prim's hair, trying to work up the courage to ask her about hearing me last night, when I hear something in the distance. It's a low groaning, and I try to ignore it for Prim's sake, but she notices when my hands still in the middle of the plait.

"Katniss, you saw him yesterday," she whispers. I didn't know she'd even noticed my being gone, thought she was asleep.

"Yeah," I answer, surprised.

"What's hurting him so bad?"

I put on my reassuring voice, the one that I save for Prim alone, and answer, "They're just nightmares, Prim. Just like what I have. Except his are especially bad."

She nods, staying silent for a few minutes until, "do you dream about the Games?"

I'm done with her braids now, and I drop my hands, not wanting to have this conversation with my baby sister. Of course I dream about the Games. About all the horrible, horrible things I've seen and done. The things I think I'm beginning to lose my humanity for. And Haymitch not only has his own Games, but every other year between then and now, seeing children that he is responsible for die in the Capitol's arena. It's sick. It's not something I want Prim to ever understand.

"Yeah, I do dream about them," I finally say.

That's when a scream rips through the air. Haymitch. My head whips around to the window, which incidentally faces across the Village towards his house. Prim looks too, this time not cringing when he lets out the yell, but looking with a measured gaze, melancholic, maybe.

She turns to look at me.

"You should go over there again."

"What?" I sputter. Now she's taken me off guard.

"You kept him quiet a whole night. Maybe he just needs somebody to talk to about them."

I want to scoff but hold myself back for Prim's sake. Haymitch needing somebody to talk to? Yeah right. Like he'd let me ask him questions about his terrors.

I get this picture of myself dressed up as Caesar Flickerman, his voice coming out of me as I sit across from Haymitch on his dilapidated couch and ask, _"So, Haymitch, how do you feel when you relive the death of your District Partner over and over in ever more horrible ways every night? And for the last 24 years, wow!" _and he answers, _"go fuck yourself, Flickerman."_

That's literally the only way that would go over.

But maybe Prim's got a point; she knows from experience that I always did better with someone around to halt my nightmares.

So I kiss Prim on the head and say, "right as always, little duck," before pushing myself off the bed and out the door, to follow the screams to Haymitch's.

The daylight has just broken across our yards as I take the steps two by two up to my mentor's house. I let myself in again and prepare for another battle with his knife, but when I look into the kitchen, he's not there. Another howl shoots through the house and I realize it's coming from upstairs, a place I've never gone in Haymitch's. Regardless, I follow the noise to a bedroom; inside I see a wolfish form thrashing between the sheets, skin slicked with a sheen of perspiration. I circle the bed once, quickly, to see if he's still nursing that knife, but it looks like it's elsewhere today. I dart a hand beneath his pillow as he's faced the other way and find exactly what I'm looking for: the knife. I stab it into the door frame far from the bed and set about untangling a still sleeping, still thrashing Haymitch from his sheets. He rolls away from me and I have to climb onto the bed, kneel over him to get anything done, when he stops his gibberish whispering and prepares to let out another moan. So I clap my hand over his mouth and try to keep him quiet.

"You broke your promise," I grit out vaguely. But he bites down on my damn hand and so I give out a yelp, my other hand flying to his stubbled jaw to free myself when – he lets go. Lets out this huge breath like he's been holding it for centuries. And he sleepily turns his head so my hand is trapped between his prickly face and the sheets. I tense up at this, confused, but Haymich is still sleeping. And he's shaking. My thumb works its way across the stubble before I try to pry my hand loose, looking down at this man so ruined by the Capitol, by their Games. Thoughts about loneliness begin to creep into my consciousness then, until they're all I can think about. How, when I was alone at times like these, Peeta would come into my bed and hold me tight to stop my quivering, to protect me from the nightmares. Haymitch shouldn't be alone right now. So I crawl beneath the newly liberated sheets, slowly lowering myself to the opposite side of the bed. I didn't feel the need to impose, just wanted him to be able to sense that an extra body was there. There for him. I simply curled up and prayed for a dreamless sleep to take me.

I awoke that evening to a loud snoring. Disoriented, I pried my eyes open just a slit to see the waning daylight coming in through an unfamiliar window, unfamiliar bedding beneath me. The weight of an arm around me. Decidedly not Peeta's. I knew it had to be Haymitch, but I turned my head just to confirm what seemed the impossible. But it _was_ his arm slung across me, and as pictures from last night flooded my groggy mind, I found I was strangely okay with it. He was fast asleep now, not a shake visible in his form. I smiled weakly before dozing off again. Snoring was a welcome relief from the screaming.

When I woke up a few hours later, I was alone in the bed. So I crawled out, pressing a hand to my forehead and wiping away the stray hairs, wanting to contemplate the situation. But there was nothing to contemplate. We were just two haunted human beings trying to deal with our memories, our baggage that came to visit every night. We each needed someone to quiet the screams. It had to be each other.

I tread down the stairs and into the kitchen. Haymitch is at the counter, bracing himself against the thing and staring down into a suspiciously Capitol-esque tumbler glass filled with water. Daring it with his eyes to turn to wine, no doubt.

Whether he hears my footsteps or just senses my presence I can't tell, but he looks up as I lean into the open doorframe.

I watch him as his eyes glance over me, declining to hold my gaze. I'm a little put off. But not really. Haymitch is always direct with me, but I can't blame him for wanting to ignore this. Too touchy-feely.

I'm waiting for him to say something and he knows it, but he wastes time pushing himself off the counter, grabbing up the glass and taking a long drink before saying,

"You're insane, you know that sweetheart?"

His voice is gravelly. I just watch him. He's leaning back against the counter now, trying to ignore my existence.

"It was nothing," I say.

He snorts. Nods his head, letting it bob up and down as he takes another drink.

"Haymitch. You can't keep screaming like that and – " And what? Was I actually about to tell Haymitch I was beginning to worry about him? That's not how we work.

"Get out." He says abruptly. "You can't tell me what I can and can't do."

He's already turned and walking away from me, but I reach out and yank his shoulder towards me as I say, "If anything you do has a hand in traumatizing my sister, yes, I do have a right to tell you what you can't do."

He's facing me, and I can feel him shaking underneath my grip and I realize I'm still digging my fingers into his shoulder when he laughs derisively and spews, "You and protecting that little girl. It's always so very touching when you get like this, sweetheart."

I narrow my eyes.

"You know what your problem is, Haymitch? You don't have a Prim. You have nothing that ties you down to this world, nothing that lets you admit your own humanity. When I used to have nightmares, or memories at night, or whatever the hell you want to call these, I had Prim, even Peeta to hold me. To be there. You needed someone to be with you, to guard against all the demons at night, because they get you when you're at your weakest, and damned if they don't know it's you right now."

He's glaring at me.

"Rousing declamation." He rolls into the bathroom and slams the door shut. I hear the deadbolt slide shut.

"And you didn't keep your promise!" I shout before stomping off.

So I head home, knowing he's okay for now, awake, but I'm vaguely wondering if sniping some of my mom's rubbing alcohol would help him at all.

I try to shrug off all thoughts of Haymitch as I push open the door to my house. My mother is a the sink doing dishes, even though we have a dishwasher, and tells me Prim's upstairs taking her before-bed bath. I kick off my boots and sink into the rocking chair facing the fire. Now that I'd slept all day, what was I going to do now? The only thing I could think of was going back to Haymitch's to drink his alcohol, but now that his poison didn't exist, there was nothing left to do. So I sat staring into the fire for a long time, past when any normal person would be in bed, until I can't sit any longer. And since I can't think of anywhere else to go, I walk back to Haymitch's.

When I let myself in this time, I find him in the living room on that ruined couch of his. He doesn't even turn his head to greet me, but instead lets out a hostile, "I thought I told you to get out."

"I _did_," I say.

His shoulders jump up slightly, as if he's scoffing at me. "That meant _stay_ out, in case you didn't get the memo."

"I got it," I answer matter-of-factly. "I just couldn't sleep."

"Yeah, wonder why that is." But he doesn't object as I curl into the armchair in the corner of the room. The television on the wall is on, flickering brightly colored images into the dark and silent room. I turn my face to it, but don't really see anything as it flickers away, the light filling up the gaps our lack of speech make.

As dawn slowly threatens the horizon, I begin to stir in my chair. Haymitch's eyes flick over to me as I stand, kicking the wrinkles out of my pants.

"I'm going to the woods," I say, and when I come back with two squirrels and a handful of nuts and berries, he doesn't protest to my cooking – dinner? breakfast? – for him and myself. He tosses his cleared plate in the sink before shuffling off into his bedroom. I consider washing the plates, but can't seem to find the energy. Instead, I let myself nestle into the couch, ready to sleep again for lack of anything better to do.

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AN: There you have it, an actual Chapter 2! And 3 is in the works ;) Still unsure of how long this fic will be, but we'll take it as it comes. Thoughts?


	3. Chapter 3

AN: First off, I want to say a big thank you / I love you/ I owe you/ YOU DA BEST to my reviewers, all of you, because believe it or not, YOU are the reason I update and continue to write! *yayyyyy* but seriously, you guys. you make this all real.

Second, like Peeniss0314, you may be wondering about Peeta. To quote said reviewer, "he seems to be too good a person to just allow Haymitch to scream, constantly, and do nothing about it". I agree! Though I kinda want to forget he exists sometimes because he blows holes in my ship (oops!), don't worry, I haven't forgotten about him ;)

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It isn't long until I'm woken up by the yells again.

This time when I enter his room, I know what to expect. I enter swiftly, going directly to his side and peel the sheets off his slick body, muttering, "Shh," as I climb in beside him. He continues to moan as I lay down, and this time, though his back is to me once again, I move close to him, my nose between his shoulder blades as I mutter, "Shut up, you bastard."

I don't even hesitate as I wrap my arms around his torso and settle down into my own tepid nightmares.

This time he wakes me up, shifting under my arm. I squint my eyes open and see a bare chest shifting before me, suddenly realizing that once again, I'm waking up in Haymitch's arms; he must've shifted in the night, for this time I'm nuzzled into his chest. I reach a hand out, willing him to stop moving as the sudden loss of body heat sends chills through me. I find him, and he freezes.

"Sweetheart."

He shifts uncomfortably, but my fingers stay put.

He's stalk still, so I let my fingers begin to move across his chest, drawing patterns on his exposed flesh and raking through the golden hairs found there.

"This can't keep happening," he mumbles.

"What can't?" I ask, my voice coming out a lot more breathy than I'd bargained for.

I can feel his chest rise and fall beneath my fingers, heavily, more heavily than a waking body would normally breathe, and my eyes find their way to his, one pair of cold, gray, empty Seam eyes to another.

His are darker than usual though, shadowed with something, and as my fingers find his neck and begin to inch up it, I find myself slowly tilting my head up to him, my fingers entwining with the hair at the base of his neck as his eyes flutter shut for just a moment...

Until he pushes my arm away. Wimpy effort, too, as if he doesn't actually want to but is compelled to do so by some invisible force.

"You don't belong here," he says, "not like this."

I want to scowl at him, but I keep my face controlled as I answer back matter-of-factly, "It helps, though. You shut up when I'm here. Isn't that enough?"

"For me, maybe, but not for you. You're so young. I've done enough damage already."

So he rolls away from me and swings his legs over the side of the bed to get up, leave me hanging once again. He pushes off the bed and steps toward the door, his shaggy blond hair all rumpled and his plaid pajama pants hanging off his hips. A jolt of anger rushes through me at this, at being ignored and maybe something else, and I spring off the bed and push him up against the wall.

He opens his mouth, probably to swear at me or tell me to get out, but I silence him as my lips press into his. My plan is to set him off-kilter, to stop him just enough for me to explain how broken we all are after being pieces in the Capitol's Games. But with this kiss, I find myself lingering. Once I started, I could hardly pull myself away. Haymitch was usually all power and punch... But here, he's different. He isn't responding, not right away, but after a few seconds I sense a lack of resistance as his lips let me mould to his. And when I finally build up the courage to pull away, his eyes are closed. He's shaking his head.

"What do you want from me, Katniss?" he asks sadly.

"For you to feel whole again."

And I don't know it until after the words have spewed from my mouth... But it's true. I'm tired of seeing him hurt, dried up, broken into pieces. I want him whole again.

"You've been gone." I'm eating dinner at home that evening with the rest of my fractured family when Prim makes the quiet observation.

My mother gives me a look from across the table. I know she can smell the Haymitch on me, and I'm not sure I want to know what she thinks I'm capable of with that man. I forget she exists as I turn my attention to Prim. She breaks into a smile. "And he's been quiet. What did you say to him?"

"I told him he was keeping us up. Told him to knock it off," I smirk her special smile at her. "Guess he listened."

Her lips tilt up in response before opening for a spoonful of dinner.

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Short chapter, I know. Don't worry, I'm uploading another tonight! Also, how 'bout them new Haymitchiness developments, eh? Tell me what you think in reviews?


	4. Chapter 4

A handful of days pass with more of the same: at night, Haymitch stays quiet and stays awake. During the daylight hours, he sleeps and stays quiet - as long as I'm curled up near him. There were strictly no repeats of the kissing episode, though. I'm not crazy enough to pull that stunt again because, unlike some people, I still value my life. But regardless of what Haymitch'd said that day, and the barriers he'd made very clear every day after, I can't help but get the feeling that he liked it, that he wouldn't mind it happening again. I know I would. I just get the feeling he thinks he's protecting me by keeping me distant. Yeah, okay.

Most days I try to split up my sleeping equally between daylight and nighttime so I can still be somewhat with the world. I go to Haymitch's when he starts screaming, say, mid-day, and stay until I wake up. I make mornings – my afternoons, really – my time in the woods, frequenting it when daylight begins to break, bringing Haymitch something to wake up to at night. Then Sunday rolls around before I'm even thinking about it, and I enter the woods only to see another figure hunched in the grassy knoll of my clearing. Our clearing. Because, after stepping closer, I realize it's Gale there waiting for me.

His face alights into its relaxed, I'm-finally-free state when he turns and sees me coming, but once I sit down next to him, he curls up his nose and says, "You smell like him."

"Good morning to you, too." I say.

"It's like, rancid."

"What is?"

"The overwhelming Haymitch smell on you."

"I've been sleeping over at his house," I shrug.

Gale raises an eyebrow at me.

"It shuts him up," I say. Last Sunday I brought my qualms about going-through-withdrawals-and-terrorizing-Prim Haymitch to Gale. He suggested I douse him with water until he stops. So besides being Gale, he should really be understanding in this moment.

But when he says, "I'll _bet_ it shuts him up," I get defensive. The way he says it, the intonation, it's all wrong.

"What are you trying to imply?" I ask him outright, not going for this unspoken crap any longer.

"You know exactly what I'm implying," he says. I do, and I don't like it. Because what Gale's implying, the _way_ he's implying it, makes it seem like I'm sleeping, _actually sleeping_ with some dirty old man who is taking advantage of me. And just because Gale'd like to take advantage of me doesn't mean that's what Haymitch is doing. We haven't even – I mean I've never –

I'm sure my face is changing colors from this train of thought, but I stop, knowing I have to combat Gale's implications with _something_.

So I scoff. "Right," I say, clearly indicating just how wrong he is. "Let's just hunt, okay?"

"Okay," he smirks at me as he agrees. Clearly the whole purpose of that exercise was just to get me hot under the collar. Well, it worked. And it's given me a lot more to think about than just how I smell.

When I bring the game over to Haymitch's that morning, I find he's still awake. He's been doing that in recent days, waiting for me to bring him a kill before snoozing. Spoiled bastard. I'm feeling pretty melancholic as I heave the game bag onto the counter. He looks up at me from his water glass. Seriously, Haymitch has to be the most hydrated person in 12 now that it's dry. Trying to make up for the dryness I suppose.

"What's eating you?" he asks, gruff maybe, but a lick of concern dotting his bloodshot eyes. He needs to go to bed.

"Gale," I mumble, pulling out a bird and berries.

"Your dear cousin?" he mocks.

"Yeah, he annoys the shit out of me," I say angrily, furiously beginning to pluck at feathers.

"Good," is all he says. He sips from his water, eyeing me over the glass.

"Aren't you even going to ask why?" I grumble exasperatedly, not knowing why I felt I had to discuss this with Haymitch.

He shrugs.

So I volunteer, "He told me I smell like you."

His eyebrows raise at that one.

"And he finds that... repulsive," he drawls.

"Yeah," I say like, _duh_. That's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Do you?" he asks.

I turn from my plucking frenzy to glare at him. But as his question sinks in, the glare fades. "No," I answer.

I feel like we're suspended in time, just looking at each other, until I feel my gaze lowering involuntarily to his lips. He notices, his eyes blinking twice until he waves his glass in a circle and toasts. "Well there you go, then." And I'm wondering what, exactly, I am having a go at.

"Go to bed," I tell him.

He shrugs, pushing himself up out of the chair and makes his way out of the kitchen and to the staircase. "If that's what you wanna do," he taunts, knowing I'll be right behind him.

"Bastard," I mutter as he begins to creak up the stairs.

"I heard that," his disembodied voice calls down.

I roll my eyes and get back to my bird.

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AN: OMG GALE WAT? And again, another short chapter. I just wanted to cut things up right with scene-age and suspense, you know? Stay with me here. I hope I'm not pissing anybody off. Review?


	5. Chapter 5

AN: About my absence. I apologize! I hadn't planned on going on a hiatus of any sort, but I suddenly got a ton of hours at work, and with that and 4th of July and Summerfest I have been trapped in a sort of time warp. Oh, and my laptop mouse quit working D: and thus kept me from updating sooner. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about this story, and I have here a good-sized update, with twice the words of any chapter I've written thus far. I hope you're not disappointed!

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So instead of curling up on the other side of Haymitch's bed, my defiant self forces me to get back at him by sleeping on the couch. I've got the bird all plucked and waiting in the fridge for the next meal, and usually I'd be dead to the world by this time of the day, but I'm slightly bothered by whether or not my kill will keep fresh until I need it, how maybe I should just drop it off at home for Prim and my mother, and all these thoughts are keeping me awake... Until more pressing things begin clouding their way into my thoughts. Like how I've been awake by myself in Haymitch's house for three hours now and Haymitch hasn't let out a sound. He's usually started up by this time. Then I'm wondering why I'm looking at this as a bad thing. Maybe he's getting better. Maybe I've been using a beneficial healing regimen, finally showing I'm somewhat my mother's daughter. But then again, Haymitch would probably be just the same if I wasn't around, right? Besides, I know nothing about these kinds of things, have nothing to go by but experience and experiment. That's when I start to worry again. What if he's not getting better? What if he's up there... dead? The lack of liquor has finally caught up to him and dried up his organs entirely? Or he's gone into some kind of shock? Or his kidneys just gave out? I know this is the most ludicrous idea ever, but once it passes through my head I can't seem to shake it. What's it been now, three and a half hours?

So with a jolt, I push myself off the cushions and run upstairs, taking the steps two-by-two until I lean a hand against the doorframe, peering into his room. He's laying there, alright. But he still might be dead. So I step into the room, my fingers brushing down the frame as I do so, and whispering over a dent in the wood there. Oh. The knife, from my first intrusion here. It was less than a week ago, but it seems like so much longer. Switching sleep schedules must do that to a person. Or something.

I round the bed so I can see his face. Shaking or prodding him awake never works, so here I am on my stomach stretching across the bed with the back of my hand in front of his mouth to see if he's breathing.

Ah. There it is. A soft, light breath, warm with life. I let out air I didn't know I'd been holding.

Why was I so worried about this bastard?

Annoyed with myself, I swing my legs up onto the bed, laying on my side and looking at him. Slowly, my fingers make their way to his lips. Soft, breathing lips. My fingers trace his bottom lip lightly, trying not to wake him up with my unaccountable actions. Because these lips. They're not too bad when they aren't emitting his guttural screeches.

And then his eyes flicker open.

_ Shit. _

Haymitch is trying to focus his gaze on me, sleep still clouding his eyes. I blink back at him. His expression, once he wakes up enough to acknowledge what's going on, hardens over into a half-scowl. He raises a hand, spinning it in a lazy circle with his pointer finger aiming down, telling me to turn around. He's done this before. The barriers. And before, I've listened. Rolled over, fallen asleep. But tonight, I'm not heeding his advice. So I shake my head in vigorous disagreement. But he's still there, half-glaring at me with another expression threatening to break through, still spinning his finger at me. So I push his hand away. He's a little shocked, but recovers, pushing me right back. I'm angry now, letting it show on my face as I push him by the shoulder. He pushes back. So another push. And another. And suddenly I'm using two hands to shove him so hard he falls onto his back. A puff emits from the bedding as it happens, and I expect him to get right back up and push me out of the house. But he's just laying there. On his back. Looking up at the ceiling, his forearm moving to cover his eyes as he lets out a half-groan. I consider him for a couple of moments, watching, waiting for a reaction. But it feels like he's giving up, like I'm not going to get anything else out of him. Well I already thought he was dead, so I'm not letting him be a human vegetable for the rest of the night. So quickly I shift my weight, crawling over him until I have one leg on either side of him, peering down at his half-covered face. I'm angry, though I'm not quite sure what for and am not about to waste time sorting it out.

"Katniss," he begins to say, arm still covering his eyes.

"Don't 'Katniss' me, Haymitch," I spit, jerking his arm away with two angry hands, "I thought you were dead!"

"Shit!" He just about jumps out of his skin when he sees me on top of him. He sees my expression and relaxes. He can handle angry, it's what he's used to. Done it enough times.

"You thought I was dead?" he finally says, breaking into a chuckle that sets the bed to shaking. A jolt of something red hot like anger runs through me.

"You weren't screaming," I defend myself. "For almost four hours."

"Guess your little home remedy is working," he says. I roll my eyes and brush off the comment.

"You're getting better, then." I insist.

"Sure, if that's how you wanna chart my progress, doc," he swaths on the sarcasm.

"It IS progress, aren't you happy about that?"

"Well whoop-de-doo, does this mean I'm WHOLE, sweetheart? That you can go back to ignoring me again?"

"No! It doesn't-"

"Oh, I think it does."

"_No_, it _doesn't_."

And the scathing look of disbelief he shoots me makes me so mad I do the only thing I can think of: I crash my lips down onto his to stop his damn arguing with me.

Here we are again. There's gonna be hell to pay for this repeat, I just know it, but there's something about throwing Haymitch so off his game... There's something about Haymitch... I don't know what it is with me and this bastard. As my hand reaches up to trap the side of his face, keeping it attached to mine, I notice the feel of his stubbly cheeks beneath my fingers and think maybe, just maybe Haymitch is kind of alluring. I don't know how. But I move my lips against his, and for once, I feel like I might be getting a response from him. I pull back enough to open my eyes, take a look at him, and it's there. His eyes, they're telling me things they shouldn't, things like how he wants this and he hates to admit it but he needs this, and he knows he's showing me, telling me, and he's not okay with that, so he scowls and yanks my head back down and kisses me again. Haymitch. Kissing me. And kissing me. And as I run my tongue over his lips they open up to me, and I don't taste alcohol, which is what I was expecting for some delusional reason. I taste...

"You thought I was dead," he mumbles.

"I think I'm dead right now," I shoot back.

His hand is tangled up in my braid at the base of my neck, and he pulls me back far enough to smirk at me. "Probably are."

"Shut up and kiss me."

He does, once. "Now you're really gonna smell like me."

"Don't care." I nuzzle back into him, kissing the side of his face. It pokes and prickles, but it's so characteristic of Haymitch I grin.

"I can't persuade you to stop again, can I," he states.

"You really want to?" I ask.

I can feel him shake his head, his prickly face squeezing into mine. "Should, but no."

o0oOo0o

After Haymitch stops kissing my face (_-!_) and goes back to sleep, I slip my way out of his house, bird in hand. I'm still worried about the freshness factor, and since it's only been daylight for a few hours, I decide to take it to my new house for a surprise lunch. I'm never there for lunch anymore; I wonder if they'll be expecting me. Wonder if they'll still make me a plate. Especially if I'm looking as kissed and off-kilter as I feel.

So I do go home and they're surprised to see me, and my mother takes the bird with grateful eyes, taking it into the kitchen while Prim talks to me about her demon cat and inquires after Haymitch. I tell her he's doing better, that I'll get to be around her more because of it. She's pretty happy, though she stays busy enough with school and helping my mom with healer stuff. I secretly revel in what normalcy my little sister has maintained. A flicker of jealousy runs through me before turning to mush. This is exactly what I wanted for Prim. A normal, content-as-you-can-get-in-12 life.

I'm sitting at the table regarding Prim, my head tilted on my propped up hand, when my mother calls us in for dinner. I get up slowly, and Prim's already back at the table eating by the time my mother ushers me into the kitchen to make me up a plate. The way this is all playing out, I know this means she wants to say something to me where Prim can't hear.

"You've been spending a lot of time over there, Katniss." She leans a hand against the countertop like any good disciplinarian mother would. If it wasn't for the time when she checked out of mine and Prim's life, I'd think she was worried about maintaining her motherly duty with me. But I know my way around this woman, and she knows it, too.

"Yeah, I know the schedule's weird, but he sleeps during the day and is awake during the night, I've told you this."

"I know, Katniss, but that's what worries me. You're there when he sleeps? And what do you do, sleep too? Sit up and watch him? It bothers me, Katniss, I went to school with the man." She sure is saying my name a whole lot. And I don't want to think about what she might be implying about his schooltime reputation or about age differences or why any of it should be brought up right now. Maybe I really do smell extra Haymitchy...? I know I have to kick into survival mode, so I quickly divert my thoughts, cleansing myself of any emotion, and put all my energy into deadpanning an end to this conversation.

"Mom, I do stuff," I say, declining to acknowledge how chafed my cheeks are feeling. "You should see his house, it doesn't reek like it used to," I babble. Besides, I have kicked the floor trash into the corners of the rooms, so it is cleaner over there, if only slightly. But getting serious I say, "But I think he's getting better. I was out when he was asleep today," I nod at the bird, "and from what I heard from Prim, he was quiet?" I'm giving her bait now.

She nods. "Haven't heard much in nearly a week."

I nod in acknowledgement. "That's why I'm here," I take the plate and lift it up with both hands to prove my point. "I probably should've asked a while ago, but-" and this is when I drop my gaze, "I was wondering what you could tell me about withdrawal. From alcohol, y'know?"

She eats it up when I let her in like this, so it's the only logical way to get into her good graces again. Plus I kinda do care about what she has to say on this matter. A smile twitches at her lips. "After lunch?" she asks, happy. Or, at least, happy enough. I nod.

"Now let's go enjoy this meal with your sister."

o0oOo0o

"Prim was asking about you."

It's nightfall and I'm leaning against the kitchen counter, arms and ankles folded, watching Haymitch eat a bowl of the stew I brought him from the batch I had for lunch.

"Is this the bird that was supposed to be marinating on my stovetop right now?" he asks with blatant disregard for my words.

"Yes, it is."

His mouth is full when he answers, "Then I demand my own bird for dinner." He's just giving me shit, but I don't humor him.

"I'm not going hunting again until tomorrow."

He shrugs, taking another spoonful. He swallows.

"And what did you say to the little chickadee?"

"I told her you were getting better," I shrug. But there's somewhere I want to go with this. "And that I'd get to spend more time with her." I look at him, expressionless and trying to read him. "In the daytime."

He has to know what I'm implying, that, if he is truly recovering, I'll have to hear it for myself. Longer than three and a half hours.

His eyes flash up to mine before bending back down to his next spoonful of soup, and he shrugs. Blows at the steaming broth. "Nice for Chickadee."

I stand there a few more minutes before a huge yawn overtakes me. I unfold myself, rubbing my eyes with my palm before striding out of the room towards the living room couch. "I'm going to sleep," I mumble.

When I wake up, I find Haymitch at the opposite end of the couch, staring at the TV. I shift, still shrouded in sleep, and he looks over at me.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says. His voice is gravelly and I'm wondering how long I've been asleep. And trying not to think about the blatant lack of sarcasm in the nickname. But a small smile creeps to the corners of my mouth.

I keep trying to blink the sleep from my eyes. "What time is it?"

"Three." In the morning, that is.

"Oh okay," I lay back down. But I can't fall asleep. All the talk about the hope and wonder of Panem coming from the flickering screen and filtering into my consciousness is too much for me right now. I sit up.

"She wonders what we nightmare about," I say. He looks over at me, regret that I brought up the topic filling his features. "She thought it'd help if we talked to each other about it, that's what she thinks we do at night."

He laughs. I'm not sure whether it's because of what we _actually_ do instead of talking, or if the idea of therapy is just that ludicrous. But after a few chuckles, he takes a breath, settling himself. Turns his attention towards the TV again, speaking seriously. "Well maybe she has a point."

I'm taken aback a little, I admit, but I'll take what I can get. And I take this as a _we can talk about it if you want_. Well, I want.

"You do dream about the Games, don't you?" I ask. " Maysilee's death. And all your years of Tributes, what about them?" It's a minute before he answers, but when he does, it's in such a low whisper I have to scootch closer to hear him. He's most likely trying to avoid rousing the ghosts.

"My Games. The girl, the last girl, with an axe through her skull. Even after all these years." He rubs his eyes on the heel of his hand. "And Donner, not that I knew her that well, but we had something in common. Like you and Bread Boy. And knowing there was nothing I could do to save her."

He pauses for a long minute. Then inhales sharply. "And the same for every Tribute since."

Something like pain shoots through me. I can only imagine how low, how desperate these things'd make any person feel. I put my hand on top of his. He gives it a squeeze, and keeps up the grip.

"But you got both of us out this year," I say, my attempt at comfort.

"_This_ year," he says. "Oh, but it's not over. The things they might make you do, Katniss," he grips my hand even tighter and turns, gaze boring wildly into my eyes. "I can't- I shudder to think..."

"Shh," I say, inching closer because he IS shaking, and if he was asleep he'd be screaming bloody murder, this is exactly how he gets. I'm watching him intently, worried, wondering if he'll go off like a bomb. Maybe Prim's advice wasn't so good after all. But in a few minutes he begins to calm himself down, hand running over my shinbone like an obsessive tick.

"I heard you scream once, sweetheart."

I can't help but glance away. "I didn't think I was that-"

"As loud as this old bastard?" he asks. "Nah, still had a ways to go."

I let my head fall onto his shoulder in defeat. He lifts his shoulder, making my head bounce up. I give him a long look saying I might just kill him. "Yours about the Games?" he asks, looking straight ahead.

I shrug. "More like… yeah, that. And losing people. Prim, Peeta, Rue…" I wasn't going to finish my thought and say _"you",_ because that might sound like more than it is, and I don't even know _what_ this is. I dreamed about losing everybody, not just the people I had to protect, but the other Tributes, the other districts, _everyone_, and there were nights when I was the last human being on the planet, stuck and so unable to do anything right and so alone. I curled into his shoulder at the thought. He accepts that this time, pats my leg and lets me be.

_Pretty soon I'm running through the woods. My woods, though there's something strange about it, about how the light's flickering through the trees and disorienting me in a place I should know. I'm running from something, can hear its heavy breathing from behind me, and then I hear a whoosh coming through the air from behind my left ear and I duck down and scramble to my right just as a knife hurtles into a tree beside me. _

_ I'm being hunted._

_ In District 12. _

_ Ice shoots through my veins and I pick up my pace, not caring about the noise I'm making crashing through the forest like this, just going, going, not stopping for anything until I run full-force into a tree. What? I stumble back, and only then I see it wasn't a tree at all, it was a person, a man, I only thought it was a tree because he was shrouded in an old leather jacket that looked almost like bark the way it... wait, I knew this jacket. I look up into the face, and it's… it's…_

_ My father. _

_ "Katniss, what are you still doing here?" he's grabbing me by the shoulders. He starts saying all kinds of other words, but I can't hear him because I'm trying to get him to go, to run, he doesn't know I'm being pursued, and then I see something flash behind him in the distance… it's Foxface, and she has a bag of apples in her hand, a neat slit cut through the woven bag and as she runs the apples are tumbling out one by one by one... _

No._ I know what's coming next... "NO!" I barely have time to shout, to pull my father away into safety because the ground is blowing up into the air as the sound of the Games' cannons fill the open space, pop after deadly pop, and I'm suddenly holding onto nothing but shreds of leather and - _

"KATNISS!"

I physically jolt awake, curling into myself in defense, terrified and still half-dreaming so the only person this could logically be would be the person hunting me…

I'm still breathing heavy when I blink into reality and see it's Haymitch standing over me, hand gripping the sides of my arms and hair falling into his face. I'm still on his couch, and I was dreaming. _I was dreaming. _

"I was dreaming," I rasp, and Haymitch sighs, pushing his hair back even though it flops right back to where it was.

"And you shouted 'no' pretty loud."

Oh god. I'm _mortified_. And it must show, because Haymitch is suddenly saying, "don't worry, I'm positive I'm still winning."

I press my eyes shut for a long two seconds to center myself, bring me fully back into reality. _My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm seventeen years old. My home is in District 12. I survived the Hunger Games. I love the woods. My father has been dead for six years. I'm in Victor Village, sleeping on Haymitch's couch. I am alive. _Yeah, barely.

I look up at him.

"What," he says.

"Can you sleep here?" I hate asking.

He gives me a look. "It's not a very big couch."

"So," I spit back. That was my point. I just needed somebody close.

He grunts. "Move over."

We finally settle into a position where we both fit wedged onto the thing, his back against the couch and his arm wrapped around me, keeping me from falling off the edge and pulling me into him.

o0oOo0o

When I wake up in the morning – the _actual_ morning – I'm determined to compensate for my nightmare of my woods by spending time there doing what I always do – hunt. Hunt like crazy. I prowl through the trees following a set of hoof tracks, hoping secretly that Gale hasn't already shot this one. Because he should be out here somewhere, it being Sunday again, and all.

I'm getting closer, I can tell by the freshness of the trail, when I hear a rustling up ahead. I crouch, pulling an arrow from my quiver, when I see a two-legged form break through the brush.

"Don't shoot, Catnip," grins a familiar voice.

It's Gale, and he's got the deer slung over his shoulders and looking like he just won the lottery. I deflate and scowl, my version of pouting.

"You're a little late," he says. Still grinning like mad. I hoist myself up from my crouch, slide my arrow back into its holster. I give him a look. "Didn't think I'd see you here at all," he admits. It's my turn to grin. At least I've outmaneuvered him in some way today.

"I could never miss this," I say, motioning to him. "You look like a regular Victor."

His face darkens at that.

Oops.

"Sorry," I say.

He crouches down to pull the deer from his back, laying it against a tree and covering it with a handful of leaves. "I haven't even checked the traps yet," he says, brushing his hands together.

Forgiven.

I point to my usual lines, and we head off in our separate directions, knowing to meet up once we'd finished checking the lines. Along the way I figured I could shoot at a couple of squirrel or grouse, if nothing else.

Had to come back with something, you know.

Two rabbits, a pair of squirrels and a grouse later, I meet up with Gale, who, of course, has to outdo me with a wild turkey, on top of that deer. With the haul we – he – got, we decide to go into the hob together, sell some stuff, and though I mostly just trade Gale for the turkey and visit Sae, it feels good to be back in the habit of something. No one here knows what's been going on with me in Victor Village since it's out of earshot from the Seam and the rest of 12, and the fact that I'm still normal – if not a bit illusive – in their eyes, is comforting.

I mosey back to the Village by mid-afternoon, pleased with my day and my endeavor back into society. I stop off at home to deliver a new ribbon to Prim, who gives me a strange look – I think nothing of it, knowing it's probably because we hardly ever have need to visit the Hob anymore – and I unload the rest of my pack, save the turkey hiding on the porch. That was for Haymitch.

Striding across my lawn and his, I breathe in the springy, scream-free air. Seemed like Haymitch was having another good day. Thank goodness.

"You're having a good day," I shout, pushing the screen door open with a crash, my game bag over my shoulder, and stomp my way through the foyer. But I stop short when my senses catch up with me... something smells different in here. I only recognize what it is when I see a pair of fresh loaves of it on the counter.

Bread. Peeta was here. I round the doorway into the kitchen and immediately correct myself – _is_ here, and leaning exasperatedly against a sparklingly clean counter, towel over his shoulder, with a harassed and surly-looking Haymitch slouching in a kitchen chair.

"What are you doing here?"

I sound a lot more threatening than I mean to.

A cloud crosses Peeta's brow before his face masks over, responding a little harshly, "I could ask you the same thing."

Okay, touché. But I cock my head at him as if to say, _really_?

We seem on the verge of a staring competition until Peeta slaps the towel down onto the counter and lifts his arms only to let them drop to his sides. "Okay," he says. "I'm baking," he declares like I'm stupid.

I drop my shoulder and the game bag rolls off. In one swift movement, I direct it up onto the freshly-cleaned counter, knowing I'm going to dirty it up with dried mud and game.

"Bringing dinner, among other things," is my response. I turn to look at Haymitch then, who has been unreasonably quiet since my arrival. He's looking rather smug, sitting there watching us.

I want to slap the bastard.

"Are you having a good day or not?" I practically shout at him, wanting to wipe that smirk of his face. _Or kiss it off_ – wait, no. Now would definitely not be an opportune time for _that_.

"I'm having a good _time_, especially watching your little soap opera play out. Does that count for something?" he retorts.

I huff at him. And then turn on Peeta.

"So why _are_ you here?" I ask.

"He was screaming."

"He was – " I stop mid-sentence and whip around to look at Haymitch. _Oh hell,_ I'm thinking.

He leans over in his chair, propping an elbow up on his knee and running that hand through his mangled blonde hair. He barely glances at me, but his expression is screaming, _Jesus, sweetheart, they're back._

I give him this long gaze, boring my message into him without words: _we can never talk about them again._

His agreement is obvious.

"And you chose now to come." I'm still looking at Haymitch when I say it, all the venom gone from my voice.

He speaks slowly, as if I don't quite understand. "Yeah… because I heard…"

But I know _he's_ the one that doesn't understand. "And you didn't hear him two weeks ago? Or for any fraction of time between then and now? Because, believe me, this is not the first time this has happened. So please, give me your excuses. Because while you've been hanging around with your bread with your earmuffs on, I've been picking up the pieces with Prim, I've been over here, I've been keeping his head out of the memories and making him eat and now you show up like the hero with a clean rag and a fresh loaf of bread thinking you have the _right_ – "

The right to do what? Where was I going with this? Was I really going to call him out for judging mine and Haymitch's … coexistence? I was definitely not going to do that.

So I'm standing there, fists clenched, face red, huffing and puffing while he's all frozen in shock across the way. He's got that deer-in-the-headlights look of his, not quite like when his name was drawn, but close.

"Two weeks?" he asks. He turns to Haymitch. "That's how long you've been –" He stops. Glances back at me. "I didn't know, this is the first time I've heard a sound, I swear."

I'm not giving him any slack. My arms are crossed now. I'm waiting for an explanation.

"I swear, Katniss, I've been at the bakery all the time. It's _in town_. And you can't hear anything from there, you have to know that. I come home to sleep, yeah, but the only thing I ever heard screaming was you once," his face reddens and he looks down. "But we kind of aren't on sleeping terms, so I – " He stops himself again. Then looks up, steeled. "I would have been here otherwise," he looks at the both of us, "you know I would have."

Yeah, I do know that. Peeta is too much of a nice guy to just allow Haymitch to scream, constantly, and do nothing about it. Me, my reasoning was all wrapped up in pacifying Prim. So, grudgingly, I have no reason but to I allow his response.

"And probably would have done so without dousing me with water, either." This is Haymitch's first real contribution to the conversation, and, of course, it's aimed at getting me mad.

"That was once," I defend myself.

He purses his lips. "Still bitter," he declares of himself.

I roll my eyes, but when I look back at Peeta, I notice he's looking relieved that his apology was accepted – but also, suddenly, a little more than uncomfortable.

_ Oh no,_ I immediately jump to conclusions. _He can't know about…_

_ Can he?_

His expression is telling me that he does.

As silence threatens to entomb us in the room, Haymitch rouses from his chair, saying, "Well, now that you're both here to keep me mute, I think I'll take myself a nap."

Hanging me out to dry. Thanks, Haymitch.

* * *

AN: So many more characters it's MINDBOGGLING-! Anyway, I went little stir-crazy with this story & trying to get this part up to par as well as up for you guys, so I'd love to hear anything you have to say about it - and the story's progress - in reviews!


	6. Chapter 6

I stand in the kitchen staring blankly at Peeta before turning to leave. Haymitch bailed on this conversation, and I plan on doing the exact same thing.

But "Katniss, wait," and a hand is on my shoulder. I turn to see Peeta's face staring hard at me, willing me to stay. "I need to talk to you," he says.

I shrug his hand off my shoulder, and he complies. "I've already said everything I have to say to you," I answer. Because it's true.

"But you haven't given me a chance to say everything I want to," he says plainly. Like his being courteous and logical will make me stay.

I waver, but decide it's the least I can do. So stand waiting, waiting to hear him out.

"I don't know what you've been doing these past few weeks, and you have no obligation to tell me. That doesn't mean I haven't wanted to see you, because, believe me, all I've done is want t-"

"Peeta, just stop." I'm still staring at him, but my voice is wavering and I'm not sure why.

"Katniss," he says taking my hands in his. I jump a little, startled at the contact.

"Sorry," he says going to release his grip, but I feel guilty, so I give his hands a squeeze back, because this is what I'm used to with Peeta. Being close. The corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. But he lets me have my space and drops his hands.

" Regardless of how I feel about you otherwise..." he dropped his gaze for that last part, "Above all, I want us to be friends. We're fellow victors, and we've got so much in common because of it that..." Wow. It's not often that Peeta's at a loss for words. "I just mean, I wish you'd trust me enough - as a friend, even a comrade - to let me know when you're not okay. Or when Haymitch isn't okay. Because I want to be there to help."

I'm listening real hard by the time he ends his piece, and my first reaction is that I almost want to hug him for it. Peeta is a good person. I _do_ trust him, that's why I let him live... or, why I wanted to save him... or at least thought he didn't deserve to die in the Games. But I just hate the fact that he loves me, that everyone in the country is under the impression that he does and that I return the favor. When Peeta's around now, I just feel like some invisible iron fist is forcing me towards him, pushing us to be together against my will. I feel it like a cold, marble rock in the pit of my stomach. And I know I can't give him the wrong idea, can't give him false hope about a future I'll never have with him. So we're silent for awhile, until I whisper,

"Right now you can help by giving me and Haymitch some space."

I'm about to turn when words pour out of his mouth again. "Katniss," his voice strains, on the edge of some emotion.

I turn to look at him. "Yeah?"

"I wasn't going to ask, but...You and Haymitch. Is there something going on between you two?"

My gut clenches at his astuteness, but I ignore what he _may_ be asking and just answer, "Other than his hassling me for fresh turkey at every meal?"

Peeta just gives me a look that says, _yes_, other than that.

"Why?" I can't help myself. It just spurts out of my mouth.

"It's just..." He stops deliberately, not wanting to go on. I raise my eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

"You smell like him."

I scoff, throwing my hands up in response. Really? Again? What, do I never shower or something?

"Well I've been over here quite a bit keeping a sock in him," is my lame but biting defense. "The aroma's bound to seep into my clothing."

It's Peeta's turn to raise an eyebrow as he reaches a hand to my face- wait, no, my braid - and lifts it to his nose and nods to himself before offering it to me.

"Smell this," he says.

Grudgingly, I hold the braid up to my nose and take a wary, dainty sniff. Straight-up Sleeping Haymitch.

It's as good as being caught red-handed.

I blink for a long second, taking a deeper breath to melt my face into its stoic mask, but all I get is another whiff of what Haymitch's neck smelled like last night. It makes sense; I'd slept tucked right under his chin all night. Or day. Or whatever. I wonder briefly if people in the Hob noticed, but am not all that worried since that place has its own smells.

I try to shrug off the shudders the smell has given me, but before I can say anything at all, Peeta asks it. What I've been dreading.

"What exactly have you been doing here, Katniss?"

I shrug, fixing my gaze on anything but his eyes. "I end up sleeping here sometimes."

"You're _sleeping_ with hi– "

"No! I'm not! And goddamnit, Peeta, why are you talking so loud?"

But his expression deflates all the same.

Oh, shit. I know exactly what his next question is going to be. He even begins to ask it. "But... you sleep _with_ him." And it goes unsaid, _like we used to_.

"Yeah," I have to duck my head, find someplace on the ground to focus on to answer him.

He's silent for a minute, or maybe a hour, nodding. "I understand," he finally says, a new hardened quality to his voice.

"But only sometimes," rushes out of my mouth before I can stop it, "And it's not like – " Not like what? Not like I'm kissing him too? Because, as I've proved in recent days, I am. So it's not what, not like I'm repeating exactly what I did with Peeta back in the arena? I don't think I am, I think Haymitch and I both understand that I can't fall in love, that maybe neither of us can. But Peeta cuts me off with a downward swipe of his hand.

"You don't have to explain yourself," he says. "I just wish you trusted me like I trust you. I owe you my life, you know."

Yeah, there's that. He's playing all his cards tonight. He just doesn't know that he's asking for the one thing that's hardest for me to give.

I reach out an arm, but let it drop to my side. Desperation kicks in. I swear I'm about to break into a whine when he turns and walks out the door. Instead, I steel myself. I cannot be weak. I cannot cry over a boy walking out of my house. Not after everything else I've seen. So instead, I get angry. It only takes a few seconds.

_Fuck!_ And I'm gritting my teeth together, my hands locking behind my head, and bring my elbows down hard on Haymitch's counter.

I just killed two relationships with one stone. Not only did I make it seem like Haymitch and I are _doing_ things and then proceed to deny it, I also successfully alienated another person who I care about.

Suddenly, I'm _so_ angry. This is what happens when I care about other people, when I care about what they think of me. This is why I try not to care about _anyone_, any_thing_. Why I just try and survive. But the Games has made that increasingly difficult for me, as I am still discovering.

_Fuck!_

I reach out, grabbing at the knife rack, the nearest thing to me, and spin, slinging a thick knife at the opposite wall of the kitchen. It lodges itself and vibrates with a satisfying _thump_ and _zingggg_, and I'm standing there watching the thing, breathing heavy, my rage subsiding. That's when I catch a shadow of movement in the doorway. I grasp another knife, Tribute reflexes taking over once again.

"Easy on the cutlery, sweetheart," I hear from the shadows, "Knives are my thing."

Haymitch. He steps into the room, inspecting the still-vibrating knife.

"Did you just eavesdrop on all of that?" I demand.

He looks back at me. "Enough of it." He crosses his arms, amused.

I deflate. There are so many things I should say right now. Instead, I just stay silent. Until I admit, "I just hate making him feel like that."

He nods. He knows there's some bit of truth to this, though there's definitely a lot I'm not saying. I'm terrified he's going to demand something more out of me, but thankfully he lets the silence between us stretch on. I'm about to think he's going to let it take over our conversation entirely until he says plainly, with a bit of (mock?) resignation,

"It's because you're secretly in love with him."

I give him a look. "No I'm not."

"Secretly."

"I'm not!"

"Secretly."

I know he's just trying to get my goad, but it's working. "Haymitch!" I chide.

"Secretl-"

"Damn it, Haymitch, you of all people should know just how incapable I am of loving anything or anyone!"

We're both taken aback a little by my outburst, but I'm just so sick of people telling me what to think and what parts to play that I'm not about to take it from Haymitch too.

Finally, he speaks. "I don't know about incapable, but I sure as hell know about unwilling."

I look up at him.

"It's survival," I say in explanation, all emotion gone from my voice. My eyes are moving out of focus as I speak. "It's too hard to love and survive. It makes everything so much harder."

"On the contrary," he says, "everybody needs love to survive."

Silence really does overtake us this time.

When I can't bear the things hanging in the air anymore, I leave.

The thing I appreciate about Haymitch is, he lets me.

* * *

AN: Sorry about the _glacial_ pace of my updates. And thank you _so_ much for all y'all's support along the way! I have the next chapter drafted, so it shouldn't be long *fingers crossed*! I hope you liked this chapter as the plot begins to thicken...! Yeah? No? Critiques or suggestions? Let me know in reviews? :D


	7. Chapter 7

Followers and Supporters… Woah. I haven't updated in forever. I am sorry. I lost all inspiration for this fic a while back and have been trying to take a hiatus from it to get a fresh outlook, but in the meantime almost forgot about it entirely... until a little bird named NefariousEnvy told me to get my ass in gear. So here I am!... after _months_. I'm currently doing NaNoWriMo and have (obviously, as such) been in the writing mood… NefariousEnvy, thank you for your persistence! This one's dedicated to you. I have a feeling you might like the next chapter better, but… ;)

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I've lost count of the days during which I've been keeping my distance from all human beings, save my mother and Prim. Well, consciously, anyway. I haven't wanted to think about my scorning Haymitch, his telling me what I could and couldn't do with that survival talk, and the resurgence of Peeta. It was all too much. I'd been comfortable, so comfortable only a handful of days ago. And now I'm brooding at my kitchen table for what is probably the third day in a row.

"They're working." I have to blink myself back into reality before I make out the image of my mother sitting at the table across from me. She's not looking at me; instead her head is bent, her hand delicately grasping a rough excuse for a pencil as she inscribes shapes into the book in front of her.

I try to speak, but have to clear my throat. "What?"

"The quercus robur glandium," she says, turning the book so I can see.

_Oh_. The medicines she told me about for Haymitch. I bent my head, focused my eyes. _Acorns? _I looked up.

"Yeah, I guess so."

She kept scribbling at the book for a while longer, and I watched her movements with half-interest. _Maybe I could add somethi…_ But no. I wasn't going to ask.

I'd been slowly coming to the realization that I needed something to do again now that I didn't have Haymitch infiltrating my days, something other than hunting, sitting, and talking to Cinna over the phone about stupid, imaginary clothing I was supposedly designing as my talent to be presented for the Tour. I felt useless, but seeing that book, I suddenly felt like _that_ was something I could do. It was a family heirloom of sorts, the collection of drawings and phrases that described plants and remedies, started by my father from his knowledge of the woods, and supplemented by my mother and her knowledge for healing. It was a sort of encyclopedia for survival in my household. And depending on whether what I remembered of it was still valid, I could fill it in with a lot more. Plants I'd learned about in the years after my father's death, methods of trapping I'd learned from Gale, how to determine the best spots for hunting within the forest.

That, and having a cheat-sheet for Haymitch-Care was a tantalizing offer. It'd sure make facing him again a whole lot easier.

When she got up from the table, the book was still laying open where she'd been working on it. After a minute making sure she wasn't coming back, I reached out my arm to snatch the book towards me. I leafed through the pages until I found the acorns again, on a page titled _Alcoholism_ and read, under _Acorns_ and some words I didn't understand: _For aiding withdrawal from alcoholism. Diminishes cravings, antidotes alcohol's negative effects. Diarrhea may occur during use, a curative effect._ There was even more on the page below it.

_Oats. Avena sativa. Begin treatment here, helps greatly in weaning off various damaging stimulants. Invigorates, improves focus and clarity while restoring normal heartbeat._

_Normal heartbeat?_ I wondered. _Okay… _I read on.

_ Wild Lettuce. Lactuca virosa. Improves sense of well-being, calms, relieves pain. Cures insomnia, naturally sedates. _

_ Calanatts. Acornus calamus. Reduces cravings, restores body-to-brain function. Improves appetite, remedies exhaustion. _

_ Celandine. Chelidonuim majus. Detoxifies. Calms anger, depression, and general sluggishness. _

_ Cayenne. Capiscum frutescens. Helps reduce morning vomiting, upset stomach, and cravings. Improves appetite. Lessens irritability, anxiety, tremors._ I raise my eyebrows. These descriptions fitted the Haymitch from a few weeks ago to a T. If only I'd learned about these sooner. Oh, wait, I _had_ known about it. I was just too proud to take a healer's advice because she was my mother.

I sit for a few seconds longer before slamming the book shut.

By the next morning I've ignored the gnawing in my gut and plucked up enough courage to trudge over to Haymitch's, a bag of game and greens over my shoulder, my father's old leather hunting jacket protecting me from the crisp morning air.

"You hungry?" I ask, walking straight in and slinging my hunting jacket over the couch as I pass. He's at the table reading a yellowed, crumpled newspaper, I can't imagine what for.

He doesn't even look up, just grunts non-committally.

I almost halt my stride to stop and inspect him – his cheeks look more gaunt than I remember, a deeper purple below his eyes. But I don't stop, simply stride over to the counter, thinking that food was definitely the right place to start. I divert my eyes to the cupboards, to the pots and pans I'm pulling out.

"I'll take that as a yes," I say.

He finally looks up from his paper when he hears the clatter of plates. Dinner is almost served, the bastard.

"Back so soon?" he asks, sarcasm dripping off his voice.

"Couldn't let you starve to death," I say, giving him barely a glance as I secretly slide more than his fair share of dinner onto his plate, hoping he won't notice. He really does look thinner.

I set our plates down in front of me as I slide onto a chair. I push Haymitch's plate across the table. He digs in. And I mean _digs_.

I almost sigh in relief; after reading that book, I thought I might have to force-feed him. But I've forgotten that he's past the difficult stages of withdrawal, and seems to be doing just fine. Still, I watch him for longer than is necessary, until I can't hold in my words any longer. "Have you even been eating?" I demand suddenly.

He looks up, a slight trace of amusement coloring his eyes.

"Figured I could stand to lose a few pounds," he replies.

"Haymitch!" I chide, chucking a pea at him with my fork.

"Hey!" he objects.

"I'm serious, you can't just not eat if I'm not here to make something for you!"

"I don't cook worth shit."

I make a disgusted sound in the back of my throat. "And mine is that much better?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says looking up from his full fork, "It is." I swear I see something glimmer in his eyes, but I ignore it. Instead, I knit my brow and go back to my peas. I finish first, and lean back in my chair to watch lazily as he eats. Finally, he scrapes the last bits from his plate and pushes it forward, slouching back in his chair.

We look at each other for a long minute before he says, "Why'd you come back."

He says it so flatly that it demands an answer.

I search my vocabulary for the right thing to say, but I just can't come up with the right thing so quick. Instead I settle for, "Had to make sure you were eating."

He looks like he doesn't quite believe me.

"Yeah."

I snatch the plates up and drop them in the sink.

"And it's a good thing I did, another day and you'd probably fall over dead," I say, turning to glance at him.

The words catch in my throat as I'm suddenly assaulted by a flash of images from a night at Haymitch's, of my couch-insomnia, of tearing up the stairs and rushing into his bedroom thinking he was dead, of checking his breathing, of leaning over him, my lips so close to his, of pressing them to his, of his kissing me back…

Something in my lower gut clenches and I can't help but glance at his lips. I want to shiver, but steel myself against it. I can't –

I see his brow wrinkle with some emotion I can't even begin to process before he clears his throat and says,

"You talk to Peeta recently?"

What? "No," the word shoots from my mouth like a harpoon, "and I'm not planning on it, either."

He sighs. It seems like he thinks I'm lying, or maybe he just wants to say more on the subject, but from the daggers I'm shooting at him with my eyes, he knows I'd stab him if he kept going.

I leave the dirty dishes in the sink and stalk into the living room. Despite my rush of animosity towards Haymitch for bringing Peeta up, I hang around for a while longer. Haymitch eventually turns up and takes his usual position in the living room, cozy in his dilapidated easy chair while I'm on the couch, watching a flickering screen as the post-meal shroud of sluggishness takes over. I'm barely even watching when a promo featuring Snow's putrid face amongst his libraries of books and fine art airs. It's his voice that makes me focus on the screen. He's going on about the Victory Tour, and I've seen this clip at least 20,000 times, and the Tour, it'd always seemed so far away before. This time it hits me like a cannon.

_Shit_. It's coming up. And _fast_. It's November now, and along with the changing of the seasons I can no longer ignore the fact that December is right around the corner, and with it, the required Tour.

"You'll get to see _that_ in a month," Haymitch comments bitterly, watching Snow move stoically through museum-like corridors. Haymitch hates this stuff as much as I do, if not more. I'd expected him to be an ally during the Tour, but now I realize I'm still not so sure where we stand. So I don't respond.

"Though the artwork sure makes the place _pop_." I freeze up at his comment. No, Haymitch wouldn't…

"This ol' place could use some paintings, don't you think, sweetheart? Too bad all you can make is dresses."

I whip my head around to look at him. He's smirking at me. _Smirking_.

I make an incredulous noise at him from the back of my throat. I seriously can't take this anymore. So I push myself off couch and stride out of the house as fast as I can, making sure to slam the door behind me.

I do come back in another day, force myself to, despite the fact that I'm still feeling especially mutinous towards Haymitch for his endless allusions to Peeta last time.

Once again, I find him sitting in his kitchen. No newspaper this time. "You hungry?" I ask, again striding in and slinging my game bag onto the counter, unpacking it without sparing a glance at him.

"No," he answers. I turn to look at him in surprise, though I don't show it. What, is he cooking for himself now? I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Had a bowl of stew for lunch," he says. I say nothing.

"What?" He demands after a pregnant pause. I raise my shoulders. _I don't know what you're harassing me about_. "I didn't know if you were planning on coming back," he spits out. "You're not the most reliable, you know that, sweetheart?"

I deflate and start repacking my game bag. I stop when I hear his voice from behind me.

"Would've tasted better with some bread, though."

Come _on_. But I force myself to shrug, and my feet take me into the living room, to my spot on the sofa. Though it's all I want to do, I somehow feel like I can't leave him here, not like this. So here I am on the couch, not watching the screen as always, and after some amount of time, I find my hand running over the spot Haymitch used to occupy beside me. Occupied during that brief alternate universe, at least. When I recognize what I'm doing, a sadness creeps into my throat, and I stop.

"Isn't the bakery missing you?" his voice carries over to me from the doorway. I tense up in my seat, staring straight ahead at the screen.

"Can you stop bringing him up?" I mutter.

"Who, Bread Boy?" His disembodied voice plays at oblivious.

I don't respond.

"_Lover_ Boy?"

I steam. Whenever he calls Peeta that, I'm taken right back into my first week of the Games, being coveted by the Careers and thinking Peeta was on their side; how Cato had him in a – But no. I won't let him take me there today.

"Shut up," I say, but it comes out as a horse whisper of sorts.

"The _star-crossed lover_ from District Twel-"

"I'm serious," I say, louder this time, "shut _up_, Haymitch."

"Not until I get some reaction out of you, sweetheart."

Now I turn to look, no, turn to glare at the doorway. I find Haymitch, half in the shadows, half in the flickering orange light, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. My brow twists without my consent and I notice in passing that it's mirroring my stomach.

"What are you trying to do, huh?" I ask him, twisting my body around to better face him, bringing my foot up onto the couch. I'm barely concealing hysterics in my words.

His arms flap out to his sides. "I'm just trying to be a good mentor." He says it like he means it, but it's not good enough. Not tonight.

"No, I mean it, _what are you trying to do_?" I enunciate. "_This_, and fucking _everybody needs love to survive_? What was that load of bullshit about? Peeta? And now you're just throwing me at him again like we never even-" but I stop myself, terrified of what I was on the verge of saying, and restarted. "Is this some kind of sick mentor strategy of yours?"

I can't really see his face because he's half in the shadows, but he butts in and I can feel the scathing anger in his voice. "A _strategy_? No, it's _not. _I'm done playing games. And frankly, sweetheart, I could ask _you _the same question. So before you come in here again ready to lounge around like you used to belong, I want you to tell me _why_. And as far as I care, you can have your bread boy. Just stop coming here and telling me you care when you so obviously don't give a damn."

With that, he turned and stalked up the steps to his room, slamming the door behind him.

When my vision was tear-less enough to see again, I slipped out of the house in the dead of the night. Fat chance I had of sleeping, though.

* * *

As seen (way) above, your comments are my motivation for writing. So if you want to see more, I encourage you to drop a line! Since I'm in dat mood, chances are another update might happen soon(ish) if y'all are still interested. Thank you for your continued support, lovers!

-Lanks


	8. Chapter 8

I could've gone home. Should've, maybe. But somehow I ended up in the woods, the place where I go to feel most centered, where I can clear my head and just be _me._ I needed to be alone with my thoughts, or, preferably, without any thoughts at all. I searched out my bow even though it was dark and definitely not prime hunting hours, but hoped that maybe, in the process of the night, something would come to me. Something that explained why Haymitch was being so cold, and why I couldn't shake the feeling that Peeta wanted to go back to how it was in the Games. I end up falling asleep in the upper solid branches of a tree. Somehow, it'd come to feel natural after my time in the Games.

I awoke with the sun, the early-morning haze still fogging up the spaces between trees before me. I blinked more fully awake, and turned to untie the ropes securing me to the branch. My fingers fell flat on my legs. There were no ropes. Apparently I'd fallen asleep without anything holding me to the tree. I was glad that I hadn't fallen out, because what a waste would that be, not even letting myself get killed by the Careers but doing it for them? I shook my head and turned my attention to my backpack, thinking a sip of water would do me some good before moving forward for the day. Again, my fingers fell on fabric, not the thick straps that should've been covering my shoulders. Panicking, I looked around, down the trunk, to see if _that_ fell during the night, but nope, not a thing. Just a bow and a quiver of arrows.

_My_ bow.

My head thunked back against the trunk of the tree. Damnit, when was this going to end? I'd just woken up and was convinced I was still in the Hunger Games. That was all behind me now. When was my brain going to catch up?

I took my time in climbing down the tree, trying to revel in the fact that I had survived, that I'd beaten the Capitol by getting Peeta out with me. But then I just started thinking about how everything was so different now, being back and being famous and being supposedly "in love" with a boy I felt more ambivalent to than anything.

I took up my bow and slung the quiver over my shoulder, figuring now was as good a time to hunt as any. It felt therapeutic to feel the crunch of dead leaves beneath my feet, to see my breath in the air ahead of me, to duck and cover at the sight of movement not out of fear, but out of gain. I ended up with two squirrels, shot right through the eye, and a bird.

After stashing my gear, I headed off toward the fence with my game and into town. Before I knew it, I was winding my way towards the bakery. I stopped dead in my tracks, but, smelling the delicious aroma of the stuff, I couldn't turn away. As I pushed open the door, a little bell rang from inside the store.

"Katniss." I heard the surprise in the voice of Peeta's father as he greeted me from behind the counter.

"Hi, Mr. Mellark," I greeted him tiredly. "Sorry, I guess I usually come to the back door, but…"

"But you're nearly family, now," he said warmly, wiping his hands and coming around the counter. "Come here."

I took a tentative step forward, not prepared for this at _all_. I did business with Mr. Mellark, didn't hug him. But I let him pull me in and pat my back.

"I don't think I've ever thanked you in person for everything you did for my boy."

"Well, at the return ceremony you kind of…"

"Well, yes, but that was such a rush, I hardly even…"

He stopped, looking at me.

"What are you doing still hunting, hm?"

I shrugged.

"Need something to do I guess."

He gave me a stern look. "Something illegal?" I didn't know what to say to that. Sorry? I wasn't. But then Mr. Mellark turned to the display case and slid open the back door.

"Anyway, what can I get for you?" he asked. No one else was in the shop, but I looked around before giving him a queer look.

"I'm almost positive you've got a squirrel in there for me," he said in explanation. And while I knew that he could afford something much better than squirrel now, I felt lighter at his comment. Maybe things could have a bit of normalcy to them, after all.

"Thanks," I said, letting my game bag fall off my shoulder. I pulled out a squirrel and handed it to him, which he rolled up in wax paper and slid into a pastry bag.

"He'll be good there for now," he whispered conspiratorially. "Now what about some cheese buns? Peeta tells me they're your favorite."

Of course. Oh, Peeta.

"Makes fresh ones every morning."

I purposefully don't consider the implications that go along with his saying that.

"Don't embarrass me, dad," came a voice from a corner of the shop, where Peeta emerged from a back room. He had a towel he was playing with, and paused to wipe at his forehead with his arm before smiling up at us.

"He isn't lying though, I have some in the oven right now."

It was strange seeing him like this, in his family's bakery with the smell of fresh loaves surrounding us, and lines of flour on his body instead of dirt or blood. And while it's nice, while it should be a relief to be home and safe again… this is not the Peeta I know.

"Thanks, Peeta," I say.

His father looks back at me, then decides to make his exit.

"Well, I'll leave you kids to it," he bubbles happily as he walks toward the door. He gets about three steps before he backpedals and snatches the pastry bag with the squirrel in it from behind the counter.

"Can't forget this," he winks before walking off.

"It'll be about three minutes before they're done," Peeta says, setting down the towel as he makes his way to the counter.

"How are you?" he asks, tentatively. Probably recalling those few days ago when he came to my house with some bread and saw me run out the back door. He was probably shocked to see me here right now.

"I want to talk to you," I say.

"Oh, okay," he perked up. "Do you want to…" he motioned toward one of the mismatched table and chair sets by the door.

"Sure."

We made our way over to the table, Peeta skipping ahead to pull out my chair for me. I deflated.

He sat and scooted up to the table in his chair, lying his forearms across the table as if he was about to have a serious talk.

"So… what did you wanna talk about?"

"A couple things," I improvise.

"Okay," he prompts.

I finally look him in the eyes, "But first I want to talk about you and me."

His expression doesn't change, but looks as if he's been turned to stone in order to keep it that way.

"You know, the Victory Tour is coming up," I start. "And while I'm not looking forward to… well, I don't think we should keep acting like this."

"I agree," Peeta says.

But I'm not sure he gets what I mean. So I say that.

"Katniss, I'm not sure you get what _I_ mean," he says.

Now I'm confused.

"I'm not trying to be hostile and make you feel out of place with my coming to your house or by seeing you around town. I want us to get along, that's all."

"I do get along with you Peeta, it's just…"

"There's been this disconnect." He fills in the gap for me better than I could've. Peeta and his words.

"Yeah," I whisper.

He reaches out to take my hand, but I quickly hide it under the table.

"See?" he sounds dejected, leaning back in his chair now. "There it is."

"It's – " But what do I say? It's not you, it's me? It's not you, it's just that I've found something else that makes my gut go all crazy and I didn't have to force-kiss it until I felt that? I'm not going to say any of that. "It's different, being back."

"It is," he says, "But why don't we call a truce? No more running away, from you," he points at me, "no more… your call… from me."

"Can you not come to my house?" I ask. "Not that I don't want you there, it's just my mom is getting mixed messages, and Prim…"

He shakes his head. "No need for explanation," he says. "Done."

Peeta sticks out his hand from across the table for a handshake. I rush to meet it, and after our hands curtly confirm our agreement, they linger together just a little too long.

"Good," he says, pulling his hand away first.

I blink back into reality as he starts to push back his chair.

"Wait!" He stops mid-scoot, then pulls back up to the table.

"One more thing," I explain. "You've gotta help me with Haymitch."

"So you don't want me to leave you alone…"

"No, I _do_, but… Have you visited him at all in the past few days? Or seen him?" I inquire.

"No," he replies, a searching look crossing his face.

I sigh. "Neither have I. I think I pissed him off."

Peeta looks amused. "How did you piss him off? Or the better question is, when have you ever _not_ pissed him off?"

"I…" I stopped. Peeta had a point.

"I think I know," he said, leaning back in his chair.

My neck shoots forward in surprise.

"What?"

"He was there when you were backpedaling for my benefit. You know, saying you didn't sleep in the same bed as him all of the time, that it was no big deal… He heard that."

I don't say a word.

"He was standing in the living room. I saw him when I left."

So that's what it was, then. The fact that Peeta knew this and didn't tell me was a little painful to hear. But then again, I guess I never really told him about my not talking to Haymitch. Well, I've screwed all this up pretty grandly. I let my head drop to the table and buried my face in my crossed arms.

"Ughhhhh."

Peeta didn't say anything for a minute, just let me sit. Sometimes I really like being around Peeta. He's too nice.

Then I hear his chair scrape away from the table.

"Be right back," he says.

I close my eyes in defeat.

A clatter. A sweet, sweet aroma. I lift my head and find a plate of cheesy buns in front of me. I look over to Peeta who's crossing his arms and standing next to the little table I'm wallowing at. A smile plays at his lips.

"I can bag them if you have to go."

I pushed back my chair now, pushed myself off the table, and stood.

"I need to go."

He made a grab for the plate, but I stopped him. "I don't think I can take any of those over there," I said, trying to explain more by meeting his eyes and hoping he could read what I was thinking.

"It's okay, Katniss," he almost laughs, "really."

I spin to pluck my game bag off the floor then run for the door, but turn back when I reach the doorway.

"Peeta – " I say. He is still standing there, in the middle of the bakery, platter in his hands, watching me. "Thank you."

And I take off.

oOoOoOo

I burst into the house to find Haymitch on the couch in what looked like half a trance. When the door slammed delayedly behind me, he looked up, eyes focusing slowly.

"Here she comes again," his voice crackled from his easy chair. "I hope you have an answer for me, sweetheart, else I'm gonna have to ask you to kindly evacuate the premises."

"You look terrible," I say.

"Well, haven't gotten much sleep since you saw me last," he rouses, flashing a glare up at me with red eyes underlined with purple bags. "You look pretty well rested though, dontcha?"

I didn't say a word, just let him say whatever he wanted to. I deserved it. I deserved worse.

"The question is, whose bed did you sleep in to get that precious slumber? Hmmh."

He got up, making a quick brush at the thousands of wrinkles lining his pants as if the brief motion would help. Stumbling closer, he passed my shoulder and scrunched his nose up.

"You smell like him, sweetheart. Just like a fresh batch of bread."

He continued to lumber away from me and into the kitchen, but I found my voice.

"I was sleeping in a tree and I thought I was in the Games when I woke up." He kept walking into the kitchen, but I followed him. "You remember when you sent me that first ointment for my leg?"

He turned but continued to look elsewhere, scratching his head and declining to meet my eyes.

"I was so shocked that you'd sent me something. Thought you could care less about me, when all was said and done. That I was alone in the arena. But you kept coming back with something, and it helped me hang on."

He looked up at me then. So I knew I had his attention when I continued.

"And I needed you to survive."

Something began welling up in his eyes before he chased it away.

"And you've been at the bakery."

I groaned in frustration. "Haymitch, do you not get it? Yes, I went to the bakery, but I was talking to him about _you_."

He gave me a hardened, challenging gaze. "About _me_."

"About what I did wrong! About how fucking frustrating you are! How, one minute I can read you like a book and the next I have no idea what you want!"

He lifts a hand to drag some fallen hair out of his face as he meets my eyes, something dangerous and defensive glimmering in them.

"You shouldn't have come back," he says.

I look at him like he's stupid. "How could I not?"

"I'm a screaming old wash-up who kills children for a living. I have no hope, no future. You have a star-crossed lover who's dying to make you cheese buns." He continues to stare at me, albeit stoically now.

I regard him for a minute, leaning back on my heels, arms crossed.

"Well I'm back now," I say, striding forward to pull out a chair, drop into it and swing my feet up onto the kitchen table, "and nothing you say is going to stop me."

He smirks, trying to hide it by his hand moving contemplatively around his mouth. Then he nods, two, three times.

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

This time when he clomps up the stairs for the night, there's no malice in his footsteps.

* * *

More comments = quicker updates... ;) (but seriously)

Oh, and NefariousEnvy, the fanfic-dot-net superiors block out your email on comments so I can't contact you, but you should PrivateMessage me so I can answer your questions!

x,

Lanks


	9. Chapter 9

AN: Sorry this took me so long. Apparently I'm super bad at taking care of my baby plot bunnies. BUT a (friendly?) little push by **hunger games hungry** and an influx of follows/faves/reviews alerted me to the fact that, yes, you guys are still reading, and yes, I suck for leaving you hanging. I STILL LOVE YOU THOUGH. I need to figure out a way to send you all DQBirthdayCakes because those are my fave and you all deserve one/five with flaming never-able-to-extinguish candles mounted atop them. FOR YOU. As is this chapter.

Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own the series or the rights or the anything, and probably am unable to send you all ice cream cakes because if I could, think how creepy that would be.

* * *

I sat at the table for another ninety seconds, fighting the urge to get up and follow Haymitch.

Like I said, it only lasted about ninety seconds. Ninety seconds for my head to wrap around the sense that this was my chance. That, for the first time in more than a week, Haymitch and I might actually be on the same page. Maybe for the first time _ever._ And if I wanted to continue… whatever I do here, maybe I should get up.

My heels had been stacked upon each other on top of the table, but went flying in every direction as I rushed to get on my feet, practically falling out of my chair in my hurry to stand up.

I take the stairs two at a time until I reach level ground where the stairs become a hallway.

"Haymitch-"

And I only have to spin to my right to see him raise his head to look at me. He's in his room sitting on his bed, shirt crumpled in his hand as if he was getting ready to go to sleep before I appeared. The sun, though, is still up, and slanting through the gap in the curtains, leaving a line of sunlight running over Haymitch's left shoulder.

His eyes reach mine, forcedly blank. My chest is still rising and falling noticeably as my breathing regulates itself, and I speak again, my eyes never wavering from his.

"There's something else."

He rolls his head back, letting out a sigh, before planting the crumpled shirt next to him and pushing himself off the bed and walking over towards me. His pants, they're hanging off his hips again.

When he's close enough that I can smell the spices on him, he stops, finally lifting his head of matted blond hair again to raise his eyes to mine, failing to hide the sadness in his own. I take a step forward, trying to inhale his scent, my eyes fluttering closed on their own accord until he swerves slightly backward, muttering, "you can't-", but I clasp my hand to his arm, keeping him near.

"Haymitch." I'm too afraid to say anything else, like maybe my words will betray me even more than my body is, so I simply settle my eyes on his face, waiting as he stares back. I don't even know how we communicate like this, but, somehow, it always seems to work. I only hope that he can read what I can't say, what I don't know how to say, don't have the courage to...

_I think I need you. I want you._

And his eyes, they look like they might want it, too, but he's holding back. He needs to be sure. I pause only a second longer before I pull closer to him, the distance between our lips becoming nearly non-existent.

"Sweetheart," he mutters against my lips before I stop him with my mouth.

Earlier, when he said he had no hope? He was lying. Because in that moment, I saw it. His eyes, his steely gray Seam eyes, they spoke volumes. They gave away his secrets. In that moment, I saw hope.

We stood in the doorway for one blissful moment, his hands coming to my hips and holding me to him as our lips connected.

Taking a breath, I pull away to look at his eyes again, but in the glance I sneak they're still closed, his brow furrowing at my distancing myself, and his hand comes up to guide my chin back to him, his lips once again pressing themselves to mine. But this time there is something else in his kiss. Something faster, something electric. I feel it right away, and I cling to it. Suddenly, it felt like I'd never kissed anyone ever before. Like this is how you're supposed to kiss people: Hard and fast, and with substance, not quick and feathery with fear like it was with Peeta. His hand tightens around my hip, and my arms reach up around his neck. Gliding my tongue across his bottom lip, I feel them part for me; I touch his tongue experimentally with my own before letting him take the lead. I'm pushed into the doorframe, his hands roaming over my clothed form, up my sides and grazing my chest before swirling back to my waist…

But I don't stay there for long. I take my chance when his lips leave mine for a fraction of a second, and before he can process it, I push away from the doorframe and spin so my back is to his room. With his pushing and pulling, my feet are leading us slowly back towards his bed. We're halfway across the room before he notices where we're headed, and opens his eyes in shock.

"Sweetheart," he breathes, hand on the back of my neck, "do you know what you're doing?"

I looked at him like he was stupid.

He considered me for a moment before closing his eyes and shaking his head, trying to hide a smirk but failing miserably. "Just checking."

He let me lead him to his bed, even took the liberty of lowering me down onto it without breaking his kiss.

o0oOo0o

"You better go," he whispers. He's leaning over me, kissing me thoroughly like he has been the last who-knows-how-long, running his hands up and down my sides beneath my shirt.

"But we're just getting to the good part," I whine.

He chuckles. "I know. And if you stay here I'm going to have a hard time stopping myself from doing things you won't want me to do."

I push myself up in the bed. "What kinds of things?" I ask slyly.

"All sorts of things," he answers, kissing my neck and trailing down from there.

"I'm not so sure I'd be opposed," I think aloud.

"Sweetheart," he stops to look at me, suddenly shifting his body until he's hovering over me, then lowering his body down onto mine, not crushing me, just getting closer until I feel his legs surrounding mine and… woah, I feel _that_. Haymitch is aroused, and I stop myself from inhaling sharply as it comes to rest on top of me. I look up at him with a start. Could I really be the cause of this? This had never happened with Peeta, and I know he liked me, even professed love for me. Not that love has to have anything to do with it, but still…

"You might be opposed," he continues. His words bring me back into the moment.

"I'm not!" I try to argue with perhaps too much force. I try again. "I'm not."

Without my consent, my hips are rising to get in closer contact with Haymitch's, and I shudder at the effect it has on me down _there_.

There's a cloudy expression in Haymitch's eyes as he gazes at me. "I don't want to mess this up," he finally says, gathering himself to roll off of me.

But I lift my hands to his neck first.

"You're not," I reply, pulling him towards me so I can kiss him.

He lets me, and but it's quickly getting out of control so I let him pull away. He rolls off of me, and I watch him, turning to do so. He's laying on his back, looking up at the ceiling, and lets out a breath before turning his head to look at me.

"I don't either," I whisper.

"What?"

"Want to mess this up."

"Oh." He takes that in, looking somewhere else and, after a moment, nods silently to himself in quiet acknowledgement.

We lay there another moment like that until I slide closer, resting my head on his shoulder. He brings his arm up so I can lay my head on his bare chest. This is entirely new territory for me, and while I'm feeling jittery and nervous, it feels so _okay_ that I'm not worried. I'm not freaking out. I'm not overanalyzing or doubting or doing all of the things I usually do. I'm _happy._

"So the Victory Tour," he says casually. I scoff. There goes happy. And casually? Yeah right. "What about it?" I ask, not wanting to talk about this. I'd gladly talk about anything _other_ than this.

"It's in a week."

I arise with a start. "A _week_?!"

He nods, amused.

I groan and settle back onto his chest. "Time flies…"

"Since you're so chummy with Bread Boy, I think getting through it'll be a breeze."

This was Haymitch throwing a jab at me.

"It'll be a breeze because we can be together all the time and I won't have to explain anything," I mutter to his chest.

"Ah, I knew it, return of the Star-Cro-"

"You and me, Haymitch," I chide, pounding my fist to his chest. "Not Peeta, _you and me_."

When I look up at him, he looks like he wants to believe me, but is keeping his guard up. "Yeah yeah, we'll see what happens when the time comes."

When is this going to end?

That really sets me off. "Do you need me to prove it to you then?" I spit out. I spring to my knees, straddle my mentor on the bed to make my point. He looks alarmed, grabs my forearms to stop me, but I continue, "I will fucking prove it to you if I need to, Haymitch, if you just-" But he closes his eyes as if in pain before grasping my forearms even tighter and flipping me to the side. It's the first time I feel overpowered by Haymitch. I stare at him, taken aback and wide eyed as he propels off the bed and turns to point a finger at me.

"Don't you prove a damn thing to me, sweetheart," he growls before letting a droop enter his posture and running a hand through his hair then down his face. "Not a damn thing."

I regard him silently.

Finally, he speaks again. "I've always believed in you, you know that?"

"Yeah," I croak out, "I do."

"Then don't sell yourself short. You're worth so much more than-"

"Don't say it, we've had this conversation-"

"We'll it's true! And I love you, Katniss, I always will but sometimes you can just be so damned hard to knock sense into!"

"I'm independent!" I shout.

"I know!"

"And I know what's important to me and I'll fight for it!"

"I know."

"And you're on that list now, so you better get used to it. Because that's how I'm always gonna be."

He looks at me a moment, as if waiting for something.

And then his words catch up to me.

"Did you just say you loved me?"


	10. Chapter 10

AN: HAD TO UP THE RATING FOR THIS ONE.

Also, shout-out to you, the reader. Thanks for getting to this point and (if it applies?) wanting more! I'm only doing this because of you. Also, just to let y'all know, I've decided to focus all my attention on this fic and FINISH IT before writing or updating any other stories. Not that I'm promising daily updates, but I'm committing over here. Please enjoy the following installment... (the longest chapter in a while!)

* * *

My heart is beating in this erratic _thumpety thumpety thump thump_ way and it feels like there's this bubble of water in my throat that keeps rising, then dropping into the pit of my stomach with no warning, and my breathing stops for too many seconds before it starts again, fast-paced and feverish.

He loves me. Haymitch said he loves me, and I alternately feel like I'm drowning and like I've never breathed so easily before. And I can't stop the physicality of my reaction. I'm glad I'm sitting down on the bed, or else I'd probably be on the floor.

"But... I thought we..." I thought we had agreed we didn't, even _couldn't_, love anymore.

"Forget it... Forget I said anything," he says. He looks alarmed though, and takes one small, halting step forward, about to reach up his hand, but stops and asks, "you okay, sweetheart?"

My hands fly to my forehead and I bend my gaze downward, eyes dilated, hoping to catch my breath, to stop myself from this intense reaction I'm having, rocking and nearly hyperventilating on Haymitch's bed.

That's when I see his feet, then his knees, and feel his hand on my back. "Breathe, sweetheart, c'mon." He sounds pissed, but that makes it easier to follow his directions. Haymitch, always there for me, Haymitch, comforting and coaching me.

"C'mon, inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. You can do it, come on."

I nod frantically, beginning to pull air slowly into my nostrils, then gaping my mouth open and dispelling it. Haymitch is rubbing calming circles on my back, and I take a few more deep, shaky breaths as he kneels in front of me.

"I'm sorry," I say after a while. He's sitting next to me now, his hands clasped between his legs as they hang off the side of the bed.

"_I'm _sorry," he enunciates.

"It's fine," I wipe at my eyes.

We just sit there stoically, thigh to thigh but so far removed from each other.

It is not fine. Because the worst part is, I think I feel the same. That I love him back. I take a shaky breath.

"I hate what the Capitol has done to me. To all of us," angry words start to fly out of my mouth. "How it's made us peasants while they sit like kings on their thrones, how I've been brainwashed into thinking that love is a bad thing that will kill my chances of survival. Because it's not, it can't be. Prim is the best thing that's ever happened to me, and she's the only person I that I -"

Well... I don't know about that anymore.

And while I choose to stay silent in order to dwell on that, Haymitch doesn't let me.

"I don't think that's true," he whispers.

I turn and look at him. He knows? How could he…

"And I'd like to believe that it's not just wishful thinking."

Of course he's right. I always underestimate just how well we get each other. I know he's right, and so does he. One look at each other, Victor to Victor, Seam kid to fellow seam kid, gray eyes to gray, and we both know it. There's something unspoken between us, and for all I care, it can stay unspoken on my part until I can wrap my brain around it. I let the moment linger, then pass, before I speak again.

"Haymitch," I say.

"Yeah," he responds, voice gravelly, husky.

I don't respond vocally, just lean over to kiss him, bending my body around and pushing his shoulders down, down so they're flush on the bed and I'm crawling over the top of him.

"I don't-" I try to speak between kisses, "know that I-" but Haymitch is adamant about making me shut up.

"You don't need to say it back," he pauses to tell me before his mouth covers mine again.

"I'm not, it's just-" and now I'm trying to get a word in while his hands reach for the hem of my shirt, "I trust you, and that's not something I do-" he pulls my shirt over my head and I shake the hair from my face, "normally. Or easily."

He pauses, gazing at me, eyes roaming over my exposed upper half, a faint smile ghosting at his lips. Then his eyes meet mine once again. "I know," he says simply.

And maybe I'm finally starting to realize how much I like this new side of us. So much so that I can't stop a corner of my mouth from turning up. Slowly, I unroll my body onto his, my stomach flattening into his, my covered breasts pushing against his exposed chest, my arms folding around his head as I lower mine, saying "stop staring," with no real gumption behind it before my mouth opens onto his and our tongues intertwine.

I've stayed away from Haymitch as long as I can, and now that we're together like this, I hold nothing back. His tongue slides across mine and his hands grasp at my exposed back, pulling my body even closer into his. I writhe into him, pushing up against his body as his hands slide up my form, pulling my brassiere over my head. For the first time on my own terms, I was completely bared to someone else. Not that Haymitch hadn't seen me naked before - he indubitably had during some point during preparation for the Games - but this was a moment for me. It meant that I felt intimate enough with Haymitch to bear myself like this and to feel little to no self-consciousness in his presence. His fingers graze over my nipples and I try to suppress a shudder.

"So hard for me, sweetheart," he utters as I turn to jelly in his touch while the nipples on my breasts had other ideas. My groin presses into his as he ripples my tits between his fingers, mouth slowly moving towards me before veering off to the right. His tongue flicks over the skin on my neck, his warm breath fanning across it, and it's all I can do to exhale. I let myself sink down into him, pressing my hips into his at intervals, grabbing his neck and never wanting his lips to break contact with my skin. He's suckling on my neck now, and I swear I've never felt so aroused before in my life. I just don't know that I'm making Haymitch feel the same, and unsure how exactly to do that.

"Haymitch," I finally say when I don't think I can stand another minute of this exceptional torture. "Haymitch, how can I..."

But his lips have moved to mine. I get caught up in his kiss until he pulls back and looks up at me. "How can you what?"

"How can I make you feel... Well..."

"Don't you worry about that, sweetheart," he assures me, hands at my waist and pulling me forward. "Today's about you."

And my breasts are staring him in the face, hanging in their different directions as if a leaden bulb exists within each of them that draws them downward. He lifts his head slowly to place one kiss on each of my tits, making them harden with satisfaction. Without meaning to, my hands claw into his shoulder, into his hair, as I slowly begin to stop thinking and start only _feeling_. What Haymitch is doing to me is certainly the divine cause. My mind is starting to get foggy around the edges as I succumb to Haymitch's gestures, until something suddenly jolts me back into the here and now:

"Haymitch!"

A call echoes up the stairs from the direction of the front door. Alerted by the shout, then hearing the door slam shut behind it, Haymitch and I are both jarred to attention and look at each other in alarm, wide-eyed like we're getting caught red-handed by our mothers or something, holding each other slightly apart as if that'll make us look less guilty.

"Peeta." We say it in unison. Luckily he's still downstairs, judging from the direction of his footsteps now faintly echoing up the staircase. I take a split second to gather a mental picture of our situation. Me, upper body completely bare, laying atop a shirtless Haymitch, our clothing strewn across the bed. Not exactly the thing I want Peeta to see, especially when we're making amends.

"Damn him," Haymitch says as he reaches for my brassiere. Taking his cue, I snap to attention, grabbing up my shirt and then taking my undergarment from his hand.

"Plan," he says, shaking out his own shirt and finding the head hole. "You go down first and tell him I was sleeping. Then I'll stalk down and be my usual cheery self. How does that sound, sweetheart?"

He looks up at me, and I'm just flipping my braid out of my reassembled outfit. I lean in to give him one more kiss before I head out.

"Good," I say, fingers flying to rebraid my mussed hair. I hurriedly twist out of the room and down the stairs, trying to keep my footfalls muffled.

I expect to meet Peeta coming up the stairs or something, but I find him in the kitchen, warming a pot of water as he pulls together a cutting board and knife.

"Peeta."

He turns to look at me, then smiles.

"Hey," he says, striding towards me, then, as if remembering that we don't really touch anymore, stops and turns abruptly back to the counter before jolting back around to face me. "Are you hungry?" he asks.

"Nah, I'm fine," I wave him off, but as we stand in awkward silence, my stomach growls. Peeta gives me a dubious look.

"Good thing I brought these," he says, pulling a cloth off a platter and revealing the cheese buns from earlier.

"You didn't!" I snatch one and hoist myself up onto the counter to eat it, holding it close to my face and breathing it in like a squirrel might regard its acorns. He just smiles at me and turns back to his cutting board, pulling out a handful of long, fresh carrots. It's still strange to me how people like us can afford delicacies like these.

"Haymitch is sleeping," I offer finally, as I'm peeling the warm bun apart and feasting on it.

"Figured," he nods, moving his hand up and down in a fluid, graceful chopping motion. Everything Peeta does is art, I swear. "Did you get to talk to him at least?" he asks.

I shrug. "He was awake when I got here." It's not really lying, but it's not really saying much, either.

"That's good," he says, "because-"

"Haymitch Victor Abernathy!" A shrill voice rings through the house as a pair – no, _many_ pairs – of feet click and clomp into the house.

I look at Peeta in alarm. Why in hell is Effie Trinket and her band of prep teams and video crews here?

He regards me solemnly, as if he knew this was coming and unfortunately didn't get to warn me. Too late now.

A _clickety-clack_ later and one Effie Trinket, electric blue clown wig and matching Capitol attire, strides into Haymitch's kitchen and clasps her sparkling, long-fingernail-adorned hands together.

"Oh, just look at this!" she shrieks in delight. "Our two favorite Victors all cozy and making a meal together in their mentor's kitchen!" She turns to the cameraman behind her and demands in a sharp whisper, "You're rolling, aren't you? Well roll some footage!"

We both look at her with alarm.

"Oh, dears, just ignore our being here for one or two more seconds...! Oh, this is just too precious _not_ to get a snapshot or two of!" She remains a few feet from us, tilting her hips wayyy to the side, her hands still clasped in front of her as if she's watching a pair of baby bunnies or something.

"Haymitch's middle name is Victor?" I ask, scoffing, ruining the effect she was going for. She scowls before answering shortly, "Yes, Haymitch Victor."

"How is that something you'd name your kid? Or does the Capitol just change it after you win a Games?"

Effie sighs as if she was hoping that, for once, I wouldn't choose to ruin the moment by being myself. She waves a hand forcefully at the cameraman with a "that's enough, turn that thing off!" before she _clickety-clack_s toward us.

"Victor is a heteronym, Katniss, and while it does mean victor in your sense of the word, it is also a very old name, a male name, that used to be very common before the Games were invented. It also happens to run in Haymitch's family, and his parents did choose to name him that." I regard her with silence. "Now come here," she says, reaching to give me a hug. "Oh, Katniss!" She exclaims when she pulls away from me, "You smell putrid!"

Peeta gives me a glance as if to say, _I told you so_. I ignore him and open my mouth to defend myself to Effie, but she has already turned to Peeta and is hugging him now, asking him about the bakery and then chattering about nonsensical things I know nothing about. She and Peeta are holding conversation for minutes until I hear something that catches my attention.

"…and where IS that man?"

"Where do you _think_ Haymitch is?" I ask, finally able to contribute to the conversation and hitching my head toward the stairs. "Asleep."

"Upstairs?" Effie asks with worry.

"Yeah, we thought it was weird too," Peeta covers for the both of us. "Must be the sobriety thing."

"You make that sound like it's a bad thing." Haymitch's voice startles us all as we spin to find him walking into the kitchen.

I fight the butterflies in my stomach as I watch his entrance. He's looking a little bedraggled, but knowing I was the reason for that only made me more fidgety.

"Trinket," he drawls. "Didn't think I'd see you here this early. You miss me or something?"

A small wave of jealousy passes through my gut at his comment... _Wait, hold up, Katniss, what are you..._

"No, but I did miss these pleasant little love birds who _actually_ _remembered_ we were coming today and who so kindly arrived at your house early to make you your breakfast."

She leans forward to give Peeta and I little confirming squeezes to our shoulders. Her eyes go wide mid-squeeze, though, and those green eyes zoom in on me like a microscope. On my neck, to be specific. My hand flies up to where she's looking. _What does she..._

And then it hits me. Oh shit. Where my hand is? It's the exact spot that Haymitch had been... paying attention to... earlier.

"Well well," she struts like a peacock showing off its feathers, "looks like our star-crossed lovers have been busy reacquainting themselves in our absence. Peeta," she regards him with a half-reprimanding, half-joking glare. "No more of that if we're going to play up the innocence angle! We'll have to get that covered before the shoot."

"Yeah, Lover Boy," Haymitch says, leaning into the kitchen table like he tends to do, "knock that off."

I throw glare at Haymitch before turning to look helplessly at Peeta, only hoping he won't take this badly. At least not in front of Effie and her Capitol crew, anyway.

"Sorry," he says to the room, placing his hand over mine on the counter before turning to look at me. "With Katniss, I just can't help myself." And before I know it, he's moving closer to me and is suddenly placing his soft Peeta lips on mine and sliding a hand behind my neck.

My body is screaming at me. _What is this? What are you doing letting this happen?_

But there's nothing I can do. Though Effie's tried to make it appear otherwise, I know that there's gotta be a camera filming us from somewhere in this room. So what can I do? If I can make it seem like I _like_ kissing Peeta, I can continue to live.

So I put my hand to his shoulder and lean into his kiss as Peeta slides closer, his hand coming to my waist. Whatever is happening outwardly, my mind is racing, is mutinous, and my head is screaming, _please Peeta, just don't open your lips_... I could _so_ not handle making out right now, not like this and certainly not with him. It seems to be working, Peeta is keeping the kiss PG, but his hands are proving otherwise as one is roaming pretty close to my...

"Okay, okay, enough," Haymitch finally objects and waves Peeta off. I look back at him and so does Peeta. Haymitch's expression is only for Peeta, though, as his eyes zoom directly to his. And though I can't see Peeta's face, I don't get good vibes from the energy between them in that look.

"Well!" Effie says. "Young love!" Haymitch looks pissed, Peeta looks defiant, and I'm trying not to look like a scolded puppy as the cameras roll.

I suddenly have no idea how I'm going to get through this with my moral commitments in tact... not to mention my sanity.


	11. Chapter 11

After going over our itinerary for the following week and planning the home interviews and showcase of talents that would take place in the meantime, Effie and her Capitol cronies took off for the night to sleep in luxury elsewhere, leaving me, Peeta and Haymitch alone at the dimly lit kitchen table. We sit in silence regarding one another for a minute or two before Peeta speaks.

"Well, I guess I'll call it a night, too." But he doesn't get up, just looks at me expectantly. He doesn't look away.

"What?" I demand.

"He wants his goodnight kiss," Haymitch stares at Peeta, his arms folded across his chest.

"C'mon, Haymitch, I just did that to save your ass." Wow. I've never heard Peeta talk like _this_before.

Haymitch barks out a laugh. "Oh, you did it for _me_, did you?"

Suddenly I'm feeling like I want out of this room.

"Yeah, I did," Peeta reacts, "because I couldn't let you ruin everything we have going here!"

"Everything you have _going_ here?" Haymitch's voice is barely above a whisper, but it's deadly.

"_WE_ have, Haymitch! Our lives! We're lucky enough to be alive and here you are, our fucking_mentor_ and you're giving her hickeys days before our _Victory Tour_. I said I'd be okay with this, for her sake, but goddamn it Haymitch, you're making me start to change my mind."

"So I give her a hickey and you make out with her on my kitchen counter."

"You pull a stupid stunt and I cover for you," Peeta corrects him.

"A stupid stunt? No, that's what this whole star-crossed lovers thing is, Lover Boy. Or did you forget that?"

"Well it didn't start as a stunt," Peeta backs down, his eyes acquiring water.

Haymitch stays silent after that one. He can't argue because he knows it's true.

"Peeta," I try after a few seconds of silence, "I think you should go."

"And you're just gonna stay the night?" he asks pathetically, as if praying that he's asking me a stupid question.

"Well I'm not leaving with you if that's what you're asking." I decide I have to stand my ground. I'm with Haymitch now, Peeta has to know that.

He simply gives me one last long, conflicted look before getting up and turning to leave.

"Can you at least try to control yourself?" Peeta throws at Haymitch as he walks out the door.

Haymitch harrumphs.

I stay at the table, listening as the door slams shut and Peeta's footsteps echo down the porch steps, followed by a fading crunching sound as he retreats through the snow.

When I can't hear a sign of him any longer, I look over to at Haymitch. He's leaning back in his chair, one arm leaning on the table, his face screwed up in a scowl.

"What?" he demands when he finally notices me looking.

"You know, we can revisit this any time you want," I say, pointing to the spot on my neck that caused so much trouble today.

Haymitch's scowl leaves his face, and something like relief plays over it for just a second before he checks himself.

"And you can stop with keeping your guard up around me so much," I add.

He turns to face me in his seat, letting out a jet of air.

"I'd like to, sweetheart, but I don't want a repeat of today anytime soon."

I know right away that he's talking about Peeta's lip-attack.

"Yeah," I confirm, "just when I thought he and I were on the same page..."

"Well you didn't think he'd let you go _that_ easily, didja?" He asks, incredulity dripping from his tone.

"Well I..." And I don't know how to finish the sentence without admitting that, yes, I did think that Peeta and I could be simply platonic again. Haymitch seems to sense my unspoken answer.

"People don't close doors or burn bridges that fast, sweetheart. My bet is it'll take him a while to stop wanting you like that, and even longer to forget about you. His best chance would be to just stay away from you for as long as possible until he starts to forget. But that could take years, and you can bet that the Games won't be letting that happen."

This is exactly what I don't want to hear, but I know that Haymitch has a point.

"You'd think it wouldn't take so long to get a couple of sloppy kisses out of your mind."

"Yeah well, it was about more than lip service for Bread Boy. Think about it. He's loved you since you were five. And now that he's had a chance to live it, to make his dream girl his in reality, why in hell would he stop? How could he, even?"

"But it wasn't reality, it was the Hunger Games. I didn't even think I'd get out alive, not until the very last Tribu-" I have to stop talking because the onslaught of memories that accompany those thoughts are just too much. Haymitch's hand reaches towards me across the table, and I lift mine out of my lap to grab onto his. "It was just circumstance," I argue anew. "He knew I knew it wasn't real..."

"But you did, you _had_ to make it real. You had to make it real for the cameras, for Snow, so you made it real for him too. Whether you wanted to or not."

My forehead plummets into my palm as I prop my elbow on the table, staring directly down onto the rough, brown surface without seeing it. Yes, I realize, I made my fake feelings for Peeta seem so real that they _became_ real. The only one I wasn't fooling was myself. Though maybe I'd even done that for a little while.

Haymitch squeezes my hand and scrapes his chair back in a move to get up, but I clamp down on his hand to stop him.

"But this is real, isn't it?"

He slides back to the table, to me, and continues to grip my hand.

"Yeah," his voice is rough. "Even though it seems like I'm living in a fucking dream."

"No!" I spit out before he's hardly finished the sentence. "I'm _not_ a dream. Peeta _always_-"

"I know you're not," Haymitch cuts me off. "At first you were a fucking nightmare. But living has a way of changing everybody… and right now _you're_ what's right."

He catches me off guard with that one. I can't seem to find my words, I just sit there, petrified. Haymitch squeezes my hand, the corner of his mouth attempting a smile.

"I love you, Haymitch."

It just comes out of my mouth. Without even thinking, without planning to, without warning. But I say it, and I feel at peace. Relieved. Because it's true. Haymitch continues holding my hand in his, and finally lets himself smile.

"I love you too, sweetheart."

oOo0oOo

I tread home through the fresh coat of snow that has fallen since I've been at Haymitch's, leaving long footprints trailing behind me. I tread slowly, wandering more than walking, not wanting to enter back into reality. The reality of the Victory Tour at my heels, of having to go back to what it was like in the Games, of having to convince the world that Haymitch is my mentor, and Peeta is the one I love. In other words, _hell. _To keep up appearances, I make sure to unbraid my hair enough to hide the mark Haymitch left on my neck. When I stomp through the front door, Prim is there to greet me.

"Oh Katniss, oh Katniss!" she chirps. "I saw the crews coming! Did you meet them at Haymitch's?"

"Nice to see you, too," I joke, pinching her cheek. She grins, then bats at my hand. She's getting too old for this, but I can't help myself. "Yes I did," I say, "Peeta and I were making breakfast when they all came."

"At Haymitch's house?" My mother's voice echoes into the entryway before she appears.

"Yeah," I instantly deflate at her presence. "I talked to Peeta at the bakery this morning and he knew they were coming." At the last minute, I try to elaborate, to put things into a light that the Capitol would approve of. Because now that the camera crews are here, that means other things are, too. "So we met up again at Haymitch's. He even made me cheesebuns."

"Peeta?" Prim asks brightly. "You're talking to him again?"

Flustered, I gather my hair to pull it into a braid again.

"Yes, Prim, why are you making me sound so gossip-worthy?"

"Because you are! You're famous now, all my friends ask about you. They'll be so happy to hear you're talking to Peeta again."

For the first time that I can even recount, my blood is boiling at Prim's words. What has she been telling them about me? Are these people even her friends or are they just using her to gain popularity? I wouldn't put it past any of them, that's for sure. But if they're using my little sister they've got another thing coming.

"Oh, she's doing more than talking to him." I can feel my mother's stare on my neck after she speaks and I bristle even more. A streak of anger and indignation rushes through me and I want to scream at her, _no, not Peeta. It was never Peeta, mom_ but I know I can't do that. I don't talk to my mom about what or who's important to me. Especially not now when there are undoubtedly bugs planted in our house that can pick up every word of our conversation and send it straight to Snow. So what can I do? I rearrange my hair again, harshly forcing it to fluff over my left shoulder, damning my mother for bringing it up. If I wanted to talk about it at all, the only thing I could do was play it off as Peeta.

I ignore my mother's comment however and turn to Prim seriously. "Prim, you can't let the fact that I was in the Games affect you like that."

"It already has," she says.

My mother nods silently in agreement.

And I know it has, in certain ways. But that's not what I'm concerned about. "I know little duck. You've grown up so much since I've been gone. And growing up is fine, it's what everybody's supposed to do, but what I mean is... Don't become friends with someone just because they ask you about me. Being... Famous I guess?... It's important to certain people. They don't care about you, they care about who you know. You have so much more to offer than that, Prim. Remember who you were friends with first is all I'm saying, okay? Don't lose yourself to these gossip mills, don't get dragged into it all."

"I won't Katniss," she agrees. But she's looking at me strangely, and though her words should be reassuring, her body language isn't. It's like there's some rift between us. Like maybe she _knows_there's something I'm not telling her, or maybe she just senses my discomfort at her telling strangers about my personal life. A sudden wash of fear runs through me. How have I become so distanced from my sister, from the one I went to the Games to protect? It was the Games, of course. It's always the Games.

I go to bed that night alone in my cold, dark room, a black cloud hovering ominously over my thoughts as I try desperately to get some rest. If the camera crews weren't here, I'd be sleeping at Haymitch's.

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AN:How are y'all feeling about Peeta? About Prim? Are things panning out as you expected or am I turning you off to this little saga? Tell me in reviews! Gracias for the read, and happy soon-to-be Valentine's Day! #teamforeveralonesoiwritefanf ictioninstead

Xoxo, LankySundown


	12. Chapter 12

AN: A new chapter for y'all! (It's a long one...:) )

Disclaimer: I don't own THG or anything, and I did use pieces of events in Suzanne Collins' version of pre-tour and pre-Quell in this chapter. None of it is freakishly-closely-related, but there it is. *disclaim'd*

Hope you like!

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It's early the next morning, and before the sun even rises, Effie Trinket is at my bedside pattering me awake, saying "Wake, wake, wake! We've got a big, big, big day ahead of us, Katniss dear!"

I groan and start to roll over, wanting more than anything to get back to my dream. My dream in which Haymitch was in my bedroom instead of Effie, and he was whispering into my ear, his breath warm and smelling suspiciously alcoholic, but saying it over and over again: _I love you I love you I love you._ There was no way I'd choose a day with Effie Trinket over _that_. However, before I get a chance to thrust a pillow over my head, I see a flash of something in behind Effie's head, a glimmer of gold within the obscurity, and it catches my eye. I try to focus my eyes, forcing myself to sit up. And then I realize: It's Cinna. Cinna is here to see me.

"Cinna!" I leap out of bed and nearly have to push Effie aside to throw my arms around him. His arms clap around my back as he hugs me back, and I don't want to let go for fear that he's just an illusion. I catch a glimpse of Effie flashing me a hurt look, as if she wishes I'd hug _her_ like that, and only then can I pull back and appreciate the fact that Cinna is here in 12.

"Katniss," he speaks in his rich, Cinna voice, "How have you been?" It's only been a few days since we've spoken on the phone, but from the look he's giving me, I can tell that my stylist wants to talk to me more than can be allowed in this room full of prying Capitol ears.

"Good," I choke out, "I've been good. Better lately." An unspoken message is sent between the two of us, a message that has been barely referenced on the phone but includes Haymitch and I and the way we are slowly starting to intertwine.

"Well I'm happy to see you in the flesh again, my Girl on Fire," he clasps my arm in amity. "I can't wait until you see the designs we've been working on. They are spectacular."

"Yes, yes," Effie breaks in, "Designs which you will be … " But she trails off, whipping her head from left to right to my bedside table and the floor before coming back to me, eyes wild. "Where's your itinerary, Katniss?"

I have no idea why she wants me to have some stupid piece of paper when she's so obviously clasping her own itinerary on that glittering pink clipboard of hers. Then again, she's probably just looking for more ways to display her disgust for me.

"Must have left it at Headquarters," I deadpan, referring to Haymitch's as headquarters just to get under Effie's skin. And maybe so as not to give away any emotional attachment I may have for the man by speaking his name.

"Well!" she bristles. "It's a good thing I came to wake you up because – "

"Deep breaths, Effemia," Cinna says, casting his golden-lined gaze to Effie, "I'll take it from here." She looks conflicted, but eventually gives.

"Don't forget, we have to have the footage collected by – "

"By eleven, it's on my itinerary," Cinna continues to soothe my frazzled escort. But Effie is already starting out the door and waving us goodbye.

"Good, good, I'll be back to check in…"

She trails off and _click-clacks_ down the stairs. I turn to Cinna with a jump in my step. I can't wait to tell him my news, to tell him what has happened between Haymitch and I, but Cinna moves his hand to my shoulder, giving me a heavy look. "The prep team is waiting for you in the bathroom," he says, but I can tell by his expression that he means much more than just the prep team is present. I open my mouth to speak anyway, but he holds a finger up to his lips in warning. I flash back to my Games, barely six months ago, when he did motioned to me in the same way after pinning my Mockingjay pin to the inner folds of my jacket before I entered the arena.

It's a sobering, but probably much-needed reminder that, while I may be a Victor now, I'm still under the control of the ruthless Capitol.

Making small talk, Cinna leads me to the bathroom where my prep team is waiting for me. My throat drops to the pit of my stomach. Seeing this ensemble of wigs and huge colored eyelash extensions and crazy metallic outfits makes me remember another reason why I loathe the Capitol. The superfluity of it all when we districts can't even feed our families. Venia, Octavia and Flavius start babbling at me as soon as I step into the room, and Cinna puts his hand on my shoulder to calm my tensing self.

"I'll leave you in their very capable hands," he says to me, winking before turning to leave. I barely have time to shudder before my team attacks with its wax and tweezers and loofahs.

I emerge from the bathroom-turned-torture-chamber at least an hour later, buffed and shining and dressed in a pink dress made of lace that plumes out at the waist and little cap sleeves that restrict my movement. I'm wearing a big, chunky necklace and my hair has been tamed into a low bun. I feel out of my element and a little too girly for my liking, but do not dare second-guess my genius stylist. I make my way down the stairs, excited to see what Cinna has come up with for my fashion "portfolio", when I see camera crews intently interviewing my mother and sister below me. Instantly my blood begins to boil. I stomp down the stairs, flying to the throng of Capitol crewmen holding light poles and microphone poles and dressed in full-body action camera suits.

"Who said you could put them on film?" I demand, raging into their midst and roughly pushing the huge camera lenses anywhere but at my sister as I confront the guy with the clipboard asking her questions, getting her to talk, getting her to think of him as some normal guy, not a part of the horrible Capitol or the even more horrendous Games.

Effie emerges from behind a row of tech people, lips pressed together, clipboard in hand, looking ready to tackle a raging bear. Which I probably resembled in spirit at least, even if I did just get a makeover.

"Katniss, please, this is standard procedure. Home interviews, talent showcases… I can't have you challenging me at every pass."

"I'm not challenging you, I'm telling you to stop exposing my family in order to build up my so-called fame! I volunteered my _life_ so she wouldn't have to go through this. I don't want anyone's pity, and I don't want _them_ to…" But I have to trail off, my arm motioning to Prim and my mother. I don't _want_ them to have to go through what I'm going through, to lose themselves to the public eye. But I could never let myself get caught saying that on camera. I look around frustratedly, and my eyes land on Prim. Prim, who's staring at me like she might be scared of me, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. I hold her gaze for a moment before I have to drop my eyes to the floor.

"Whatever," I say. I sense motion in the doorway to the living room, and look up to see Cinna coming to rest against the doorframe, folding his arms and watching. I'm suddenly ashamed. "Do what you want," I say, hurrying out of the room.

I always feel so incapable when I can't protect my family. It was the one thing I had going for me before the Games, and when I can't do that, I feel like I don't know who I am.

As I step into the living room, I can't help but wish Haymitch were here. He's usually the one getting himself into trouble with Effie and the crews and the Capitol's plans in general, and usually sticks up for me if and when I do the same. I pause in the doorway as the thought passes through my mind – Haymitch has always stuck up for me. How long has he known he loves me…? But better yet, how long had he been denying it? My mouth turns up at the corners thinking about it.

My mood improves even more when I see Cinna's handiwork – excuse me, _my_ handiwork (_cough cough_). There are designs and fabrics and sketches everywhere, laid out on furniture, adorning headless forms standing on poles. Everything is beautiful, if not a bit sloppier than Cinna's usual work. That, of course, is because it was supposed to be _me_ making everything. As usual, I'm pretty listless as the cameras begin to roll and I drift through the displays, holding up a dress here and a sketch there and reading off the cue cards a crewmember holds up for me. When they're done capturing the film, they make me read the cards again with more emotion, recording just my voice so they can write over the original film with this more colorful representation of me. What seems like hours later, it's finally a wrap, and Effie comes back to make sure we're on schedule with that damn itinerary. I'm sent back to my prep team where I'm re-dressed like a doll, put in a white dress of much the same style as the last, except a little more off the shoulder and made of a thick, sort-of-scratchy material Flavius calls wool. We'll be going outside, so I get a new coat too - of course my dad's hunting jacket would never do - and it's this light blue furry thing, shaped like an oversized dress with sleeves. My hands are even slid into white leather mittens, and a floppy hat is placed on top of my head; not over my head like any useful hat would be, but _on top of it_. I guess I have a long ways to go before I understand fashion. I can't complain, though, because at least I get to wear some thick, colored tights on my legs. I'm thankful I get this small measure of practical clothing, because it is _cold_ out.

After I'm dressed to take a fashionable walk in the elements, I'm finally told what the purpose of this next segment is: to visit Peeta at the bakery, a place that Haymitch has suggested because it's "mine and Peeta's 'hangout'". It is no such thing, but I don't bother to correct anyone. I have to play the part they want me to until I can come up with a way to break out of it. Besides, they're supposedly trying to catch us in our "natural habitats", as seen by the spontaneous filming of every move I make, and I guess that I'd rather have the whole crew following me to the bakery than to Haymitch's bedroom.

We're about a block from the bakery when I start to get nervous. What am I going to do? I'll be expected to kiss Peeta when I get in there. Does he know we're coming? Does he know that _I'm_ coming? I haven't talked to Peeta since chasing him out of Haymitch's house, and there are definitely still some ambivalent feelings between us that need airing out. We can't do that on camera, especially since it involves my loving Haymitch. _My loving Haymitch. _The thought still sends a shot of adrenaline through my system, and I find myself kicking up snow, pumping my arms to gather enough speed to leave my entourage in the dust. I'm running, running faster than I have since the Games, and I can tell I'm succeeding in my escape when shouts of "Slow down, Katniss, stop!" fade into the distance and I reach the buildings and store fronts that signal town.

When I burst into the doors of the bakery, the sweet-smelling air overwhelms my senses and I'm taken aback a step as I pause to inhale the delicious aroma.

"Katniss." It's Peeta, his voice slipping over to me as he appears from behind the oven and moves toward me.

"Peeta," I resopnd, and I sound breathless because of my running to get here. But I can't stop and worry about what my voice sounds like, not when I have to _tell him_. So I rush up to him, putting my hands on his big Peeta arms and looking him straight in the eye. He's smiling to himself, until his eyes meet mine. Then he gets dead serious, mirroring my disposition exactly.

"I love him, Peeta," I whisper. I stare into his eyes helplessly, searching for a reaction, a sign that says its okay. That he still trusts me. Or even that he hates me. Something.

"It's okay," he shrugs, lowering his eyes, "I-" But then I hear the door creak and jingle open, and before I can turn to see who it is or even register what to do next, Peeta's mouth swoops down onto mine, catching my lips in a deep kiss, his arm wrapping tightly around my waist and pulling me to him as if we've been at it the whole time. Until Peeta suddenly pulls his lips from mine, seeming distracted, like he just hears the door opening for the first time as the bell continues to jingle and a crowd of feet shuffle into the small bakery, Effie's voice clamoring over the din as she puts up a hand to check her wig, breathing heavy and trying to flick away the snow gathered the toes of her high-heeled shoes.

"Katniss, what did I _tell_ you, you _must_ stop – " But she stops herself, pausing to take in the scene before her before she starts smiling. Peeta's arms are still around me, and I'm sure I look mortified.

Peeta pulls away from me sheepishly. I will never get over how good of an actor this boy can be. If only I had an ounce of his talent.

"Never mind me," Effie almost giggles. _Giggling? _Get real, Effie.

"I have something for you," he whispers to me in a voice loud enough for the cameras to pick up, breaking our contact and moving behind the counter. I watch, moving forward to lean on the counter as he pulls a platter of cheesy buns from a warmer.

"You didn't!" I try to exclaim happily as I move to take one of the buns.

Luckily, Effie soon cuts in with direction so I can stop trying to use my horrible acting skills to convince the country of mine and Peeta's enduring love. "Katniss, if I could just have you sit on the counter..." As I move to do so, she stops me with a flicking of her hand, "no, no, no, take your coat off first!" There's always something, right?

I do as she says, and we capture footage of me enjoying Peeta's baking as we exchange lines.

"They're her favorite."

"Only because _you_ make them!"

"Yeah, but you like these best," Peeta leans his elbows back on the counter I'm sitting on, smirking tenderly over his shoulder at me.

I have to look down at the cheesy bun I'm pulling apart in my hands so I don't give away my embarrassment as I answer, "I guess that's true."

I can only imagine the chorus of "Aww"'s our little scene will elicit from a brainless Capitol audience. It almost makes me sick to my stomach, feeling like we're going backwards in time, like Haymitch and I never loved at all, because no one acknowledges that we did, we _are, _and they all insist that I love Peeta. It makes me even sicker to my stomach because I can't see any way to tell the truth and remain alive. Because I know how Haymitch's family died. He did something the Capitol didn't like, and he turned around and they were gone. I know that could happen to me, to my mother and Prim, just as easily. It simply hadn't hit me until I was standing in the Mellark family's bakery, a cloud of lies and performances suddenly suffocating me.

And then I'm released. It's time for Peeta's talent filming, and I'm set free for the rest of the day. I vacate town, leaving the camera crews and the suffocation behind me as I begin running again. This time I'm not running away from something, though. I'm running towards Haymitch's.

Luckily I can afford to be this reckless because of the snowstorm that has moved over town in the intervening hours I spent in the bakery, obscuring everything so much that filming outdoor shots would be a waste of time and film.

o0oOo0o

I clomp up the stairs to Haymitch's taking them two by two, hardly bothering to pause as I shake the snow off of me before pushing open his door. I don't even take off my shoes, just follow the muffled sounds of what has to be the TV into the living room.

Haymitch doesn't look up when I enter; rather, he jerks his head up to stare at me through his stringy blonde hair after I've been standing there for couple of long moments.

"Well look at you," he sputters. He's got a glass of dark liquid in his hand and is looking at me with an odd, sad expression on his face. Cinna is sitting in the room with him, in the adjacent, misshapen chair.

I turn to Cinna, letting anger bubble up inside me to mask my confusion and distress, not only for the liquid that may be in Haymitch's glass, but for the reaction Haymitch gave me that _has_ to be because of the ridiculous outfit Cinna had put me in.

"What is in that glass?" I demand. My hands are balling into fists at my sides.

"Calm down tiger, it's not booze," Haymitch answers, swishing his glass at me and leaning forward. I don't believe him, though. He's acting exactly like he did during my training for the Games, exactly like he does when he's drinking. He even _looks_ like hell again. I give him a look of distain, of disbelief, then march over to him and snatch the glass out of his hand, tipping it to my lips and gulping a portion of it.

I cough up the disgusting taste. It's definitely not alcohol, as I can't feel a burning in my throat, but it's something equally disgusting, if not worse. The taste of it is what hurts.

"Okay, I believe you," I hack out, wiping my mouth on my furry blue sleeve. "But then why do you look like hell?" I keep my arm outstretched, glaring at the furry blue fabric of my coat until I decide to rip it off while I wait for Haymitch's response.

"Didn't get much sleep last night..." he trails off. But he says this softer, and as he speaks, he continues to lean forward, holding my glare, and I can fill in his meaning: _without you_.

Well, that's the end of my glare.

I'm about to walk over and demand that he kiss me until I see Cinna looking at me with his eyebrows raised in warning. Haymitch stretches out his arms then, faking a yawn and says, "It's getting stuffy in here," before pushing himself up off the couch. I'm standing almost directly in his way, and he brushes past me harshly slipping me an intense look.

_What is up with these mood swings? _I'm just about to say it when he cuts me off:

"Come on, sweetheart, we're going to stake out the next filming spot."

That's all he gives me as he stalks out of the house. That, and sweetheart has gained back all the sarcasm and derision it once held. I stand there in shock until I hear movement from behind me. I look over to Cinna, flabbergasted. His look is telling me not to be so surprised.

"Get a move-on," he says, slowly standing himself and slipping on his jacket. Forgetting that I just shed my coat, I take off after Haymitch, hoping to catch him before he disappears into the snow.

"Haymitch!" I shout after him. I can barely see him through the snow swirling like mad between us, his form hunching slightly against the onslaught, hands in his pockets, walking briskly.

I speed up, annoyed, and yank on his shoulder, trying to get him to face me. "Hey!" I shout over the wind, "What's your problem?" until he spins around and lets loose.

"What were you _thinking_ coming into my house like that?!" Haymitch's eyes are as wild as the snowstorm we're caught in.

"The camera crew's at Peeta's!" I defend myself.

"Sweetheart," the endearment is back in the nickname, "you know how I feel about you, but nothing, _no one_, from the Capitol can know. We have to be careful. What we're doing is dangerous, and I know you know that, but _Jesus_, use your brain sometimes, will you? My fucking house is bugged now and –"

But I yank on his coat, pulling him into me as I put my mouth on his. When I feel his warm hands grip my arms, I shiver, just now realizing I forgot my coat, but Haymitch's hands are warming me, pulling me into him with a viselike grip. He looks down at me briefly and whispers, "You're not even wearing a coat, sweetheart," before his lips surge back to mine.

I can tell in his kiss that he thinks this is the last time he'll be able to do this for a long time. And maybe it should be, but I can't think like that. I try not to think, not to ruin the moment of his lips on mine, the completely unbridled emotion in this exchange, the most intensity I've ever felt in one moment in my life. And I've been through the Hunger Games, so that's saying something. Time slows, and though the wind's whipping at us, beating us down, we stay attached to each other, only pull each other tighter until I'm completely wrapped in his arms, shielded from the cold and everything else. I had asked Haymitch a night ago – was it only a night? – if this was real. Here was a physical answer to my question.

"Abernathy!" Too soon, Cinna's voice cuts through the wind towards us. Neither of us has the will to pull away, though Cinna _can't_ see us like this. "Where are you?"

Haymitch's grip loosens, and so does the speed of his kiss, but his lips stay on mine, tender, soft. When they finally leave mine, I open my eyes to see his own fixated on me, an expression I've never seen before on his face. Cinna clears his throat, obviously behind me, but I can't pull away from Haymitch to check; I am far too comfortable here.

Haymitch, though, blinks a few times before hoarsely choking out a "Yeah" in Cinna's direction. I'm still wrapped tightly into his chest. I smirk, turning my head to see Cinna through the snow with his arms folded over his chest, holding a hand to his lips like he's trying to stop himself from laughing at us.

"Right, well," Cinna approaches us, throwing an arm around either of us and forcing himself between us. He's grinning like a kid. "It's high time we strategize about this too, huh?"


	13. Chapter 13

AN: It's been a while, and, as usual, I regret keeping you waiting. However, this story was going too slow and not in the direction I wanted it to as I kept trying to write and rewrite this chapter, but now, we're finally headed in the right direction! A shout-out to all of you still reading and reviewing; I usually write fics as sprints, but this has turned into more of a marathon, and we've got a ways to go. Thank you for sticking with me! *all the love*. To those joining me recently, welcome aboard, and don't be afraid to review your heart out, as well as give me criticisms, points of improvement, and plot predictions. I love to see what you're thinking, plus your words make me a better writer.

As usual, disclaimer in that I am not Suzanne Collins, the real mastermind. I just make her characters love the wrong *coughRIGHTcough* people :)

* * *

As a brief reminder in case it's been a while...

_Recently, Katniss and Haymitch have declared their love for one another. However, growing dissension from Peeta and suspicions from Katniss's mother keep things on the DL. Meanwhile, Effie, Cinna, and the Capitol's many crews have come back to District 12 in time to get some footage - of Peeta and Katniss heating things up, to be exact - before the upcoming Victory Tour._

* * *

Screams 13

Our arms linking us together, our human chain of Cinna, Haymitch and I weaves its way through the pelting blizzard of snow. I'm not sure where we're going, nor can I see through the heavy snow whipping into my face, but before I know it we've reached my old neighborhood - we're back in the Seam. I briefly wonder if Cinna has ever actually been to the Seam before, but it's not really worth talking about since he can't really see the place this time anyways. I'm not sure what the purpose of being here is exactly, but realize that Haymitch has been leading us as he slips purposefully down alleyways and obscure pathways, cutting through the snow and then breaking off from our chain of arms to go ahead solo. Immediately after he leaves a chill rushes through me, and though it's because of the coat I'm not wearing, I look to Cinna before rushing off to follow. I almost run into Haymitch as I come upon him pushing his shoulder to a front door a few yards ahead.

"Haymitch, what are you..."

But then he bursts into the door, and swings out an arm motioning me to get inside. I'm frozen in place on the doorstep.

"Well?" he prods, wanting to get me inside.

I want to stand my ground, have him stop treating me with mystery and chivalry, but the cold gets the better of me and I trudge inside, Haymitch and Cinna close behind.

Haymitch slams the door shut behind us, sliding the lock into place before turning back to face us, rubbing his hands together and blowing into them to create heat.

"Where are we?" I question.

"The Seam," Haymitch answers, eyes focused on warming his hands.

I narrow my eyes. "I know that, but where -"

Cinna pipes up. "What Haymitch doesn't want to say is, this is his old house."

For a minute, I'm dumbfounded. It has to be traumatic returning to a place once inhabited by people you loved, only to come back to their ghosts. But the feeling soon leaves me and a more pressing issue takes over... If this is Haymitch's old house, that means it is probably bugged too, or at least was at one time, right? "But won't the Capitol..."

"You don't think they know about everything, do you? That they have the resources to bug every place in the District?" Haymitch spits out.

Lately I've been feeling like the Capitol is omnipotent, so I don't answer, just scowl in response.

"Okay. So what's the game plan?" I ask finally, folding my arms into myself and shivering in the cold as the house, now abandoned for a good 24 years, lets the draftiness in. Yeah, I definitely shouldn't have ripped off my coat then gone running off into a blizzard.

"You idiot," Haymitch says as he moves to take off his coat to give to me.

"I don't need your coat," I say raising an arm in protest, but my teeth chatter, completely destroying my case as I try to be self-sufficient.

"Ha!" He spits. "Clearly you do. Maybe our brilliant stylist could've dressed you in something more weather-appropriate today."

"Au contraire, I did my job, its life was simply too short-lived," Cinna shrugs. "Life of a designer."

"Take it," Haymitch holds his jacket out to me.

"No."

"Goddamn it, woman," he says shrugging it back on, "do you want to catch hypothermia?" He strides over to me then, steps in behind me and opens up the sides of his jacket only to wrap them around my body. I shiver again, this time at the sudden warmth his body is radiating towards me.

"You're like a friggin icicle... A stupid friggin icicle," he mutters as he buries his nose into my hair.

"I am a little cold," I admit in a mutter, still shivering as I acclimate to his sudden warmth. One of Haymitch's hands is pulling the edges of his coat around me, and I wrap my fingers around his, and he plants a kiss to the side of my head.

Cinna clears his throat, bringing us back to attention.

"Oh, shove off," Haymitch jokes, but shifts his stance and pulls his nose out of my hair, opting to perch his chin on my shoulder instead.

"While I just adore watching you two love birds together, the sooner we get this hashed over the sooner we can get out of here."

"Touche," I shiver.

"That being said..."

"Katniss," Haymitch cuts off Cinna, grumbling urgently into my ear. "There's something you need to know about."

"Oh please, this is not the time to air your dirty laundry, Hay-"

"Oh, he is quite serious." Cinna is crossing his arms and touching his chin, the way he gets when contemplating serious matters. That's when I know I should listen up.

"We've got a problem on our hands. And it's not about the Victory Tour or you and the boy, or even you and me. This is bigger than everyone here in 12. It's about all of the districts - all of Panem - and the Capitol." I'm looking at Cinna while Haymitch talks into my ear, gripping my shoulder for meaning. I'm trying to piece it together... what, what is he trying to tell me? That the Victory Tour is more than a Victory Tour? That I can stop pretending Peeta and I might have a spark? That I don't have to go on the Victory Tour at all? The shadowed look in Cinna's eyes tell me I haven't got it yet, because I'd be reacting differently if I had.

"Sweetheart," Haymitch finally says, "we have an uprising on our hands."

I feel my mouth open in a slight and silent gasp. _Uprising_. The first thing that passes through my mind at the word is the video they play every year at the Reaping, the footage of the uprisings and the Dark Days and the stone-cold voice narrating, the images of destruction, of screaming children... My mind immediately switches to Gale, to how he's talked of rebellion for so long, of escape, of standing up to the Capitol and their sick, twisted ways... How, if he were the one receiving this news, he'd feel like his life finally meant something…

Cinna was right, I _am_ reacting. Why? Because it means something to me, this uprising. It means something might finally have the chance to change. I'm immediately filled with a mix of fear, apprehension, and panicky joy.

"Other districts?" I ask, my voice quiet as if I can't quite believe it. Everything suddenly seems surreal, like I can't quite see straight, and everything looks a little blurred around the edges. "How many? Which ones?" I turn and grip onto Haymitch's arm, staring up at him, searching. I suddenly start to feel desperate, jumpy, terrifyingly anxious as my mind replays the Capitol's yearly footage of fire, bombings, destruction... but I imagine it in 12. "How many people have... are...?" I can't even finish my question because, suddenly, a bigger, even scarier thought hits me.

"It doesn't matter," Cinna says, walking over and putting a hand on my back. "It has begun, and there's no going back. The people of Panem are making their choices." I barely hear him, though. I know why they're telling me this. Not just because I might think it's great or something, but because of who I am. Who I've become. I'm the "Girl on Fire." Tributes don't often get nicknames for no reason; and usually, the ones that do get killed off in the Arena: The arena that I managed to manipulate my way out of. _Girl on Fire_... I think. That must mean my image... My personal rebellion... Has somehow been conflated into a connection with these uprisings.

"It isn't a coincidence that these uprisings are happening right after my Games, is it?" I finally say.

The look that Cinna and Haymitch give each other is as much confirmation as I need.

"So the Districts see two kids fake a romance and they start an uprising over it?" I ask spittingly. I revert to speaking drastic nonsense sometimes when I'm feeling defensive. For instance, "I volunteer as Tribute". Regardless, I wonder how much truth there is to it: The fact that there are two surviving Victors is the most rebellious act I participated in. And it wasn't because I loved Peeta, not in the way everyone thinks at least, but will that image, that connection, have its hold on me for the rest of my life? And just as I'm finding peace in Haymitch?

"You were a catalyst," Haymitch tries to explain, taking me by the shoulder and turning me to look him in the eyes, like he does when he feeds me strategy. "Life in the Districts, especially the outer ones, has been shitty for quite a while now, as you've lived through. You gave people hope with the star-crossed lovers act, sure, but you did something much bigger than that."

"I know, I know, the stunt with berries," I cut in. "But I didn't do it because I'm in love with Peeta! I did it because I couldn't stand the thought of him dying in there! That's different, you know?"

Haymitch slowly nods his head. "Yeah, I get it. But do you know what this looks like? What this makes you?" he asks earnestly.

I nod, staying silent for a minute as I look at the floor. "It makes me a problem," I eventually mutter.

I feel Haymitch's fingers beneath my chin, slowly raising my head up to meet his eyes.  
"It makes you the face of a rebellion."

"But what about this?" I ask fervently, pointing a finger between the two of us and motioning.

"Sweetheart," his tone grows hard, with that lick of mischief I've become accustomed to, "I'm trying to tell you about an uprising and you're worried about me?"

"Duh," I respond. "Because, what you're saying is..." that I still had to be with Peeta. Right?

"What I'm _saying_ is, we have a plan. More than anything you just have to show solidarity with the boy during this Victory Tour. When it comes down to it, the important thing is that the people in the districts are more interested in how you stood up the Capitol than how you're in puppy love with some teenager. What they care about is how you stayed true to your district and did _good_ with your power in that Arena. Now you just have to do the same as a Victor."

"And us?" I ask Haymitch.

"Well this doesn't exactly leave us kissing and telling, but it certainly doesn't leave you backed into a wall either, which is where the Capitol wants you. We just can't let the choice between Peeta and I be an option. We need to be a team. Solidarity, remember."

I nod, slowly, keeping an eye on Haymitch. _Solidarity_...

"But I've already been playing up some fake romance to Peeta on the cameras," I argue. Honestly, why did I - why did _everyone_ - think that was the only option up until now?

"I know," Haymitch nods, "Just leave that to me. I've known Effie long enough to be able to pull a few strings."

I must look as doubtful as I feel, because Haymitch suddenly takes my hand and curls my fingers into his so he can lay a row of kisses on my knuckles. "Hey," he says, "stop worrying about everything."

I don't say anything, just vaguely look anywhere but at Haymitch. I know I shouldn't be as melancholic as I'm feeling right now, but considering that Haymitch lost everything - every_one_ - he loved just because he used his Arena's force field... It makes my own future look like it'll be heading the same way, especially if I go through with this "face of a rebellion" thing. It's not something I wanted to compromise on - Panem _desperately_ needs this rebellion - but at the same time, I sure as hell didn't want to compromise the lives of my loved ones.

My eyes focus and I realize I'm looking at Cinna as he peers out the window.

"We should get going," Haymitch finally says. "Here," he continues, shrugging off his coat for the second time and shoving it at me. "Take it for the walk home."

This time I don't turn it away.


End file.
